


Wayward and Down

by affectingly



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, First Time, M/M, Magic, Mates, Pack Dynamics, Soulmates, Spells & Enchantments, Trolls, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-25
Updated: 2012-09-01
Packaged: 2017-11-08 12:55:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 32,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/affectingly/pseuds/affectingly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pack is family. Family is everything.</p><p>This is Stiles' senior year, and it's nothing he could have imagined.</p><p>or</p><p>That time it took not one, but two separate troll attacks and a malevolent coven of witches for Stiles to figure out how he felt about Derek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Teen Wolf ate my brain, and I can't even be sorry.  
> Title stolen from a Cory Branan song of the same name.  
>  _Sweet is the apple, dark is the town. I can't help fallin' **wayward and down**._
> 
> This fic was written while season 2 was ongoing, so there may be a few discrepancies, but I tried to make it as S2 compliant as possible.

Stiles wouldn't say that he spends a lot of time blaming himself. Just some of the time. Just when everything is too quiet. When he's alone. When he has a moment to stop and think about how his excitement to go looking for half of a _dead girl's body_ in the woods one night is what started all of this. 

Well, that's not entirely true. There were Argents on the field, fouling up the play long before him. But guilt isn't exactly a rational emotion to begin with, and it's hard to fight off, no matter what else happens. 

He knows Derek understands that, at least. Even post-kanima, when he stops feeling like his head is going to explode, when they finally find their way to something resembling a functional pack, Stiles keeps waiting for the bottom to drop out. 

Second verse, same as the first, and all that crap. 

At least it's _them_ , he reasons. Because honestly, sometimes the most terrifying thing he can think of is that it might not have been them. Peter could have turned someone else instead of Scott. And then where would they be? Clueless and defenseless and... hell, Derek would probably even be dead, killed by Kate Argent's bullet with no one to retrieve the wolfsbane in order to cure him. 

That thought churns his stomach and he dismisses it. Because it was them, and they're together, and as ridiculous as that sentiment is, it's true and it gets them all the way up to senior year's door. Which, hell, Stiles'll count that as a win, even if he won't say it out loud.

\--

“Tell the truth,” Allison says, bright grin on her face. “You never thought we’d make it to senior year alive.”

Scott’s got his arm around her waist and hers are looped possessively around his shoulders. Stiles is happy for them, happy _they_ made it this far, and if Stiles were going to put money on it, he’d never bet against them making it work in the long run. They’re just… one of those couples.

He shrugs, sitting on the hood of his Jeep with his knees pulled up, his own smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. He fidgets, tapping a foot. “We haven’t even graduated yet. Don’t jinx us.”

Scott rolls his eyes, and Allison lets out a peel of laughter. He likes seeing them so happy, after everything.

“I don’t think we qualify for jinxes,” says Scott. “Our whole life is a jinx.”

“You say that now, but when you’re texting me from a faery’s trunk next month on your way to a ritual sacrifice, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” But Stiles is full on smiling now. Scott is right, their life is gonna be crazy, regardless.

“Do faeries drive cars?” Scott asks seriously, face scrunched up as he thinks it over.

“ _That’s_ what you’re choosing to take away from what I said?” Stiles swings an arm out, punctuating his point.

Scott opens his mouth to reply, but Allison kisses him on the cheek and his eyes widen just a little, like they always do when she does things like that. It’s like he’ll always be just a little surprised that she could love him. He turns into her and kisses her back and it’s Stiles’ turn to roll his eyes.

He checks his phone for something to do and sees an unread message. It’s from Lydia: _Erica and I are on our way._

He taps out a quick reply ( _see you soon_ ) and looks back up. Scott and Allison have stopped sucking face, but his attention slips past them and to the road. The Camaro is pulling up the drive to the Hale house, sleek and shiny as ever, but it’s Isaac and Boyd who get out of course.

Stiles slides off his Jeep and walks over, holding out his hand, pulling each of them into a very manly back-slap-hug. “Hey, long time, no see, dudes. You just get back?”

“Yeah, ‘bout an hour ago,” says Boyd, nodding. “We dropped Jackson off at his place, but he said he’d be here. Probably went to see Danny first though, you know them.”

Stiles snorts. “Uh, ye-ah, I think Jackson just likes to check, make sure Danny really is his boyfriend, hasn’t wizened up yet.”

That earns a laugh from everyone and the boys go around him to greet Scott and Allison, too. “So that’s everyone accounted for because Lydia just texted me and Erica’s with her, so that just leaves the guy who _called_ this meeting. Where the fuck is Derek?”

And really, Stiles should know it’s coming.

“Right here,” says Derek from behind him.

" _Dammit_ ,” squawks Stiles, and yeah, there’s no hiding how high he jumps, karate chopping the air in front of him as he whips around. “Do you _have_ to do that, dude?”

Derek gives him a glare and lifts an eyebrow, dry as can be as he says, “Yes, it’s on my to-do list, right after ‘eating Red Riding Hood's grandmother' but before ‘howling naked at the moon.’”

He snorts. Sometimes, Stiles regrets that he ever discovered Derek’s sense of humor. “Har, har, funny man. Jesus, you are incapable of being anything less than a creeper, aren’t you?”

A smirk is the only answer he gets and Stiles grumbles before he gestures at the house. “And since when do you lock your front door? We’ve been waiting out here for hours.”

“You’ve been out here for twenty minutes tops, Stiles,” says Derek, digging in his pocket for his keys. “I could smell you before you even hit the property line. And the key’s hidden where it always is, idiot.”

Stiles may in fact bust out a pout. Whatever, honey badger don’t care. “But that’s so much _work_. My question stands, since when do you lock up?”

Derek sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can we just take this inside and get started?”

“The meeting’s about your security habits, big guy?” presses Stiles, and he knows he’s pushing it by the look Derek throws him. It’s way less this-is-my-joking-glare and way more you’re-actually-testing-my-patience-now- _Stiles_. He throws up his hands in surrender.

“Fine, fine, have it your way. Did you remember to buy something to eat this time? Some frozen pizzas at least? I thought I was gonna start eating my _hoodie_ last month.”

Derek lets out a growl but when they get inside, he grudgingly opens the refrigerator and yanks out a meat and cheese tray. Stiles is momentarily distracted by the mental image of Derek in the grocery store buying a deli tray and it makes him laugh. Derek glares.

“Sweet!” says Scott, already digging in, and Isaac and Boyd are right behind him.

“Hey! Leave some for us mere mortals, guys!” Werewolves eat _everything_.

Allison walks around them with a smile on her face and grabs an apple and a bottle of water from the fridge before she trails after Derek into the living room.

Stiles manages to wrestle away enough ham and cheddar to make a sandwich before Jackson shows up, Lydia and Erica right behind him. Lydia wrinkles her nose and mutters something about not really being into _warm meat_ and Erica laughs and kisses her on the cheek while making promises of sushi later.

They’re honestly a sickeningly sweet couple, and they give Allison and Scott a run for their money. It should be weird, probably, seeing his ex-super-crush with the woman who used to have a super-crush on _him_ , but whatever. Stiles doesn’t dwell. He embraces the now! King of current affairs!

Also, dating Lydia would have been a disaster, but she makes a pretty badass friend, so there’s that. And as a bonus, Erica chilled the fuck out as soon as she started getting laid on a regular basis. He takes a giant bite of his sandwich and holds out his fist in greeting. Lydia gives him a withering look but Stiles doesn’t even flinch.

He cocks his head to the side and waggles his eyebrows, and Lydia rolls her eyes and finally laughs, bumping her fist to his. “Striking as ever, Stiles.”

“Hey, I got moves. You know you want this.”

It’s Erica’s turn to give him a look but then she just shakes her head, punching him lightly (for a werewolf) in the shoulder, brushing past him into the living room as she shouts, “Is it too late to let those leprechauns keep Stiles?”

Lydia laughs at the face he’s making and links her arm with his as she pulls him from the kitchen to join everyone else. “Come on, all the good spots are gonna be taken.”

To be fair, there really is no bad spot in Derek’s living room. When he finally committed to remodeling his house last summer, he went for broke. They needed a place to gather, to lick their wounds when the outside world was too much.

Personally, Stiles thinks Derek missed the feeling of having his house overflowing with people, with loud voices and laughter, with roughhousing and affection. With pack, with family. So, yeah, the living room is stuffed with cushy seating and pillows, and there’s always someone willing to make room next to them.

Derek looks up when they come in and he catches Stiles' eyes, expression unreadable. Sometimes, there are still moments when Stiles wonders if Alphas can’t read emotions to the point of actual empathic ability, but he’s never been able to get Derek to cop to it. He swallows against the feeling in his chest and breaks eye contact, scoping out the available real estate.

Lydia breaks away to curl up next to Erica and Stiles plops down next to Isaac, risking life and limb to steal the bag of potato chips sitting between him and Boyd. Derek calls the meeting to something resembling order and Stiles munches on his tasty, tasty snack while Derek details the game plan for the school year, how they are totally not going to get into any trouble, how Allison is super awesome for making the hunters keep their distance, and how shock-of-shocks, he’s sure everyone will do well this year. Stiles is paraphrasing, obviously, but it’s a pretty good meeting.

Plus, even though it’s Jackson’s night to pick the movie, they end up watching The Dark Knight, which is always awesome.

\--

They make it almost three weeks into the new semester without all hell breaking loose. It’s a new best.

“What the hell are those things?” shouts Isaac, leaping over where Stiles is crouched on the ground behind an overturned table in the cafeteria.

“Trolls,” pants Stiles. “Fucking _trolls_!”

“Trolls?” Isaac seems dubious. “Aren’t those supposed to be… bigger?”

Stiles grimaces, glancing behind him to where Lydia is currently checking Jackson’s pulse and Boyd is digging in his bag for first aid equipment. Jackson never did heal as quickly as the wolves after he gained control of himself.

He turns back to Isaac. “They are… when they’re adults. I think those are adolescents.”

“Are you telling me,” snaps Erica as she takes off her now shredded and disgusting jacket, “that there’s an even bigger mama troll out there?”

“Actually, it’d be the _papa_ troll, technically. Trolls are matriarchal, the women hunt and fight and the males rear their young…”

“STILES!”

“Yes! Yes, okay! There’s a bigger one out there somewhere, possibly several. They’re pack creatures, from what I’ve read, even meaner than they are stupid, and very territorial.”

“Perfect,” mutters Isaac. “Did you get ahold of the others? Are they on their way?”

Just then a chair goes flying over their heads and crashes into the far wall.

Two, no, _three_ of the trolls come lumbering into the room. They’re dragging a fourth who is bleeding a sickly blue-green blood, leaving it smeared across the floor. They smell _foul_.

“I sent the text to everyone, okay? But Derek, Scott, and Allison are meeting with the Hunters Council, and they may not have even seen it yet,” says Stiles, hating his life by a lot. One minute, Jackson is helping him practice for lacrosse (this is his senior year and he is _making_ first line in January, dammit). The next minute…

Trolls.

And Jackson saved his life. Stiles is never going to hear the end of that.

Boyd comes up next to him, eyes glowing bright as he snarls at the trolls, his arms slightly extended at his sides, claws at the ready. "There are six of us and three of them. We just need to figure out their weakness. Stiles, any ideas?"

Not for the first time, Stiles thinks Boyd is a natural leader. He wouldn't be surprised if one day, he went off to form his own pack. He would shoulder the responsibilities of being an Alpha well. But Stiles shakes his head to clear it and tries to think. He never actually considered that they'd have to really fight trolls one day. He researched them because he thought they were interesting!

"Um, lightning?" he says helplessly. "In the old legends, people would call on Thor to battle them."

Lydia chooses then to chime in. "Well, I don't see Chris Hemsworth anywhere, do you? So you'd better come up with a workable alternative or we're all going to end up with our skulls bashed in, and I, for one, am _not into that look_!"

If Lydia's voice goes a little shrill at the end, Stiles'll never point it out to her. He turns, catching sight of Jackson, sitting up now but still looking out of it. So really, they've got three werewolves, Lydia, Stiles, and one down-for-the-count Jackson. Lydia's abilities are fairly touch-and-go, especially under stress, and Stiles... Well, he starts looking for a viable electricity source.

"Keep them here, I'll be right back." He scrambles up and barely dodges as another chair goes flying from the advancing trolls.

Stiles bursts through the double doors into the kitchen, frantically searching for an extension cord or -- or something, anything. He's not picky. He's not even sure this plan will _work_. It's not every day he goes around trying to electrocute jolly green giants! Okay, mini-giants. Regular-sized jolly green people.

He hears a crash and a lot of growling.

Regular-sized not-so-jolly green, um... things.

"Get it together, Stilinski!" he says to himself, blinking rapidly. He does find an extension cord, and a gallon of water. He grabs a kitchen knife and starts stripping the end of the cord, exposing the wires as he marches toward the chaos.

Fuck he hopes this works.

\--

So, yeah. It works. A little too well.

Stiles wakes up, staring up at the cafeteria ceiling. He feels... weird.

He blinks a few times and realizes Lydia is hovering over him looking distinctly frantic. Her lips are moving. He can't hear her.

His heart thumps painfully in his chest, so hard it makes him cough, jolting his body as he gasps and rolls onto his side. With a sudden whoosh, his hearing kicks back in and everything floods his system at once: sound, smell, taste, and touch.

His mouth tastes like blood and he realizes he bit his own tongue, and that's when he remembers what happened. He sits up and blinks, still a little dizzy.

"You idiot! You could have DIED! Are you -- are you insane? You just FRIED YOURSELF. You're lucky you got knocked clear by the trolls or you'd be DEAD."

It takes him a moment to realize it's _Jackson_ shouting at him now, but he probably should have guessed. Jackson never misses an opportunity to disparage his heroics! Even if he is showing an uncharacteristic amount of concern for Stiles' life, but hey at least he knows Jackson really does care.

Stiles winces, still struggling to breathe normally. He does feel kind of... cooked, singed around the edges. "It worked though, right?"

Lydia thumps him lightly but then brushes her fingers through the hair he's only just starting to grow out as she studies his face. "Of course it worked. You're a genius, even if you're also a moron. Don't ever do that again, Stiles. If you died..."

"I know, I know, you guys'd have to find someone else to do all the research. Buzzkill, totally. I get it," says Stiles, laughing it off. It feels weird, having everyone staring at him, worried about him.

Erica rolls her eyes from behind Lydia and gets up. "I'm gonna go help Isaac and Boyd ditch the bodies."

"They didn't turn to stone? Bummer, I thought they might," sighs Stiles. "Ugh, anyway, let's get out of here. I told you, there's probably more of them, and I really don't want to know what'd happen to us in the face of full grown monsters out for revenge."

They're just clamoring down the steps to the parking lot when Derek, Scott, and Allison finally show up, skidding to a stop and jumping out, clearly ready for a fight. Allison's got her bow at the ready and Stiles holds up his hands in surrender.

"Hey, coast's clear guys!" he says brightly, and gets a scowl from Derek for his trouble.

"And you couldn't have texted us that?" complains Allison, lowering her bow and putting her arrow back.

"Erm, busy burying trolls."

Scotts eyes go comically round. "Trolls."

"Yes, trolls! Man, does no one else around here read anything, ever?" asks Stiles, sniffing. Ugh, he thinks he's actually smoldering right now.

Apparently, Derek notices too, because his eyes narrow and he steps forward. "And what happened to you? Your..." he trails off, pausing as he tips his head like he's listening to something and then he snaps, "Your heart. Why does it sound different?"

"Ah," says Stiles, laughing faintly. "Um, well, see, did you know trolls can be killed with lightning?"

Stiles can see the moment it clicks for Derek and he lets out a snarl. Stiles giggles, feeling a little hysterical. He's probably having an acute stress reaction. Psychological shock! Hey, better than circulatory shock, which wouldn't be out of the question, all things considered. Then he'd really be fucked!

"It's not funny." Derek doesn't sound even a little amused. "The rhythm of your heartbeat has actually _changed_. You stopped your own heart. Stiles, stop laughing, you could have died, dammit."

He can feel his face heating up. Fuck, he really hates it when Derek goes all Concerned Alpha on him. He doesn't know how to deal with it, and he just ends up babbling and flailing around and making no damn sense. He tries to change the subject. "Now you just sound like Jackson! You know Jackson saved my life tonight. You should give him a gold star or something. Even if he is kind of a dick. No offense!"

"None taken, dude," mutters Jackson, his eyebrows shooting up as he looks away. There's a distinct air of awkward hovering over him.

In fact, everyone seems a little uncomfortable. Probably because Derek is audibly growling right now.

Stiles sighs, sobering considerably. "Listen, I appreciate the concern, but right now I really just want to get home before my dad does and do my calculus homework and be done with this shit for the night, okay? So could you just _move_?"

Derek doesn't move. Instead he bites out, "You need to go to the hospital."

"Yeah, _that's_ not gonna happen! I have to worry enough as it is about my dad having a heart attack. I'm not gonna give him one by going to the hospital when I'm perfectly fine, okay? I just need to sleep it off."

He goes to step around Derek, but Derek steps with him, his hand darting out, pushing against Stiles' chest. "Out of the fucking question."

"You drag me to the hospital right now, Derek, and I'll swear up and down nothing happened to me. They're not going to admit me against my will. They're just going to call my _dad_ and then you can explain to him what I was doing tonight that would require a hospital visit!" If Stiles thought he could get away with stomping his foot right now, he would totally do it.

Derek's fingers curl into the fabric of Stiles' shirt and he yanks him closer. " _Fine_ , then you can call your dad, make any excuse you have to, but you're coming home with me so that I can watch you. You can't go home where your dad doesn't even know something could go wrong."

Stiles flexes his jaw, mouth tight as he glares back at Derek. Ugh, he hates how quickly Derek can still piss him off, even after everything, even knowing what a good guy he turned out to be. Hell, maybe that's become half the reason he can still piss Stiles off so much. He wants to tell Derek no, he wants to tell him to go to hell. Derek's not in charge of him.

But then Lydia pipes up, the first person to dare to speak since he and Derek really got going, and she says, "Stiles, come on. He has a point. You might even have a concussion. You hit the ground pretty hard when you got knocked clear."

When Derek and Lydia agree, he knows there's no winning against them. "Et tu, Lydia? Et tu?"

No one responds, and Derek's still entirely too close, looking like he's two minutes away from dragging Stiles back to the house by force if necessary. Stiles' shoulders slump and he says, "Oh alright, but someone needs to sneak up to my room. I need my laptop and some clean clothes! And my toothbrush!"

Derek rolls his eyes but lets him go, satisfied. "And you're not driving either. Let Isaac and Boyd get your car to my place. They'll grab your stuff too."

"My baby!" he gasps, scandalized. He never lets anyone else drive the Jeep! Ever.

"They're not going to hurt that piece of shit Jeep, Stiles. Get over it," says Derek. "Come on, you're riding with me."

Stiles feels like he's an errant puppy who pissed on the carpet as Derek takes a hold of his arm and drags him to the Corvette he started driving when he gave the Camaro to Isaac. He jerks his arm out of Derek's grip even though it hurts. "It's not a piece of shit. It was my mom's."

He gets a vindictive sort of relief at the look on Derek's face. Stiles yanks the passenger door open himself and gets in, slamming it before Derek can reply.

He doesn't know how this evening spiraled out of control so quickly. Okay, yes, there were the trolls, but Stiles thought they did a pretty good job handling it. He thought _he_ did a pretty good job handling it! He's the one who took them down, in the end, and yeah, so it went a little sideways and he electrocuted the buh-jesus out of himself, but whatever! It worked. And he was happy, he felt accomplished.

And then Derek managed to make him feel like an incompetent fuck-up in two seconds flat even though he's the one who saved everyone!

He calls his dad, and somehow, miraculously, convinces him that he's gonna stay at Jackson's because they're going to get up early for more lacrosse practice. Stiles' dad knows how important first line is to him, though, so he lets it slide, tells Stiles he's working a double tomorrow anyway, so if he wants he can stay the night Saturday, too. Stiles always feels the worse about lying to his dad when he's so understanding.

When he gets off the phone, Stiles refuses to even look at the rest of the pack through the window, keeps his eyes forward, boring holes in Derek's dash, waiting for him to climb into the driver's seat so they can go.

Derek's silent when he does get in. He starts the car and they pull away smoothly, heading east and out of town, to the woods. Stiles knows the way well and he leans back, watching as the landscape shifts, changes into dense foliage, the air coming in through the vent taking on the scent of rich, dark earth, of thick flora and a full-to-bursting forest of fauna. It used to calm him, when he was little.

His mom would take him for picnics, loading up the Jeep with lawn chairs and blankets and a big, cliche basket of food. She'd take Stiles out here for the whole day, let him run wild, play pirates and Robin Hood and cowboys with him all day. She never told Stiles he was wrong when he wanted Robin's merry men to be astronauts or if he said the best cowboy was also a mermaid named Lydia. She understood him.

She was his best friend, his only friend then.

But now, the woods... the woods are associated with other things. With Scott getting bit. With people dying. With pack. And.. with Derek.

It's confusing, conflicting. Just like Derek.

He wraps his arms around himself, shivering. It's not even that cold. He thinks it's probably a physiological manifestation of his emotional shock. He thinks he read that somewhere once.

Derek's voice breaks the silence, low and gravelly and full of regret. "I didn't mean -- I didn't know about the Jeep. I'm sorry."

Stiles shrugs, pretends to not be surprised at how easily Derek offered an apology. He jiggles his leg, restless, and replies, "Yeah, whatever."

He's not in a very forgiving mood, what with how he's still being forced to go home with Derek. He can hear the leather creaking under Derek's grip as his hands tighten on the steering wheel.

"Would you stop, Stiles? I'm _not_ sorry about looking after you. If it were anyone else, you'd be on my side. Why do you always have it in your head that no one else is allowed to take care of you?"

Stiles' stomach flips nastily and he swallows hard, hoping his voice won't come out as shaky as he suddenly feels. "Just because I'm human doesn't mean I need to be taken care of. I think I've proved my worth in this pack. I don't need you implying that I can't take care of myself."

"The fact that you're _worth_ something to m-- to my _pack_ ," grounds out Derek, like he can barely contain himself in order to speak, "is exactly why I want to make sure you're okay. And I _don't_ think you're weak just because you're human."

"Oh, so you think I'm weak for some other unexplained reason?" And Stiles knows he's being intentionally thick, but he doesn't care. Every time he feels like things are maybe okay with Derek, finally, that he's not going to be a massive asshole about Stiles, about his humanity, shit like this happens. Stiles doesn't have to put up with it!

"Don't put words in my mouth!" Derek slams the heel of his palm against the steering wheel and then swerves to the side of the gravel road they've been barreling down, pulling to an abrupt stop.

"Almosts two years, Stiles. It's been almost two years since we ended up in each other's lives and you still question me at every turn, still doubt my motives and the minute you don't get your way, you act like I'm trying to ruin your life by existing." Derek's eyes are glowing red now, but Stiles isn't afraid.

Stiles can't remember the last time he was genuinely afraid of Derek because he knows Derek doesn't lose control. If his eyes are red, it's because he wants them to be.

"That's not even true!" he shouts. "I'm always sticking up for you!"

Every time Scott doubts Derek's choices, every time Erica calls him a domineering prick behind his back, every time Jackson questions if Derek even knows what he's doing at all, Stiles is there! Stiles is the one to point out that yes, Derek can be an asshole and his choices can seem a little sketchy sometimes and yeah, there have been a few moments where the fact that Derek lost his family at sixteen shows, but Derek did eventually get his shit together.

Derek's motivations have always been genuine and even when he's an unbearable overbearing dick, he's still their Alpha. More importantly, he's still someone _Stiles_ trusts now.

Stiles just wishes the same could be said in reverse, that Derek would ever, just once, trust in Stiles.

"You sure as hell haven't done it within earshot of me. And let me tell you, I don't even have to be in the same building to pick up what you're saying!"

"What the hell does that even _mean_? Is that some new, clever way to tell me what a loudmouth I am? How I never shut up? Thanks for that. Can never get enough of people complaining about me talking." And yes, he's completely ignoring the other part of that, how apparently Derek has no idea how Stiles feels about him.

He thought Derek knew. He thought he understood. Stiles can't say it outloud, can't admit how much he thinks of Derek when he knows the sentiment isn't returned.

Derek stares back at him. The silence stretches out, lasts so long that Stiles starts to fidget under the weight of it. It lasts until Derek's eyes go muddy green again, the red bleeding out of them like a sluggish wound, every heartbeat expelling Derek's anger.

"It means I'm always listening to you, Stiles. I'm always listening _for_ you," admits Derek, shaking his head as he turns back to the road, starting the car again.

Stiles has no idea what to say to that, what to make of it. So for once, he says nothing at all.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles crosses his fingers that his eighteenth birthday will be as uneventful as all the birthdays before it. No monsters, no supernatural creatures (well, except the werewolves, but really, Stiles is pretty sure werewolves are just a permanent fixture of his life now), and no injuries.

His dad takes the day off and doesn't make him go to school, which is awesome since he lucked into having his birthday on a Friday this year. He rolls out of bed just past 10:00 A.M. to the smell of bacon and maple syrup.

Has he mentioned lately how awesome his dad can be? Because yeah. His dad is just taking another (only slightly burnt) pancake off the skillet when Stiles stumbles in, scratching his belly and smiling dopily. "Oh my god, I love you."

His dad looks over his shoulder, hint of a smile as he lifts his eyebrow. "What, I don't deserve the privilege of seeing you actually showered and dressed anymore? What is that?"

Stiles looks down at himself, the ratty blue boxers, a dingy (now gray) t-shirt, and the pièce de résistance, tube socks with holes at the big toes. He wiggles his toes experimentally and then narrows his eyes at his dad as he scrubs at the peach fuzz scraggle on his cheeks. "It's my manly pajamas. GRRRR. See?"

Snorting, his dad shakes his head. "Amazing, truly. Here, eat your bacon before it goes cold."

He sets a plate on the table, stacked with pancakes and several pieces of bacon and then he grabs glasses, pours Stiles juice and milk and rubs his hand over the top of Stiles' head as Stiles sits, happily spreading butter and drizzling syrup.

"Happy Birthday, kid."

Stiles flashes him a grin through his first bite and mumbles, "Thanks, Dad."

His dad grunts and turns to get his own plate, sitting down across from Stiles. They eat in silence for a while, Stiles stuffing himself ridiculously full and his dad stealing one of his pieces of bacon. Stiles decides to let it go, which makes his dad laugh.

"What no cautionary spiel about my cholesterol?"

"One piece on special occasions is, I suppose, permissible," says Stiles, "But don't make a habit of it."

"No, sir. Thank you, sir," says his dad, rolling his eyes. "Anyway, I thought we could head to the store here in a little bit, get all the stuff we need for the barbecue. What time are your friends coming over?"

Stiles shrugs, licking his lips free of syrup and swallowing before he answers. "Um, I think around six? We can have dinner, hang out for a while, and then probably head over to Derek's about ten or so. That way we don't keep you up. Plus, no neighbors out in the country."

His dad frowns and Stiles represses a groan because he really thought they were past this.

"You know I don't like you spending so much time up there, or with Derek Hale in general."

"Come on, Dad! Do we have to do this today? It's my birthday. I'm eighteen, all grown up! I can be friends with whomever I want, and anyway, I've told you, like, a million times that he's not a bad guy, okay? He just... looks bad. Like Jessica Rabbit."

"Stiles..."

"No, I don't want to have an argument right now. He's my friend. End of story."

His dad holds up his hands in surrender. "Fine, you're right. You're... older now. You have to make your own decisions. Just be careful. For me."

When his dad phrases things like that, it's entirely unfair. Stiles can't even stay annoyed. Not that he wants to be annoyed at his dad today, but the option might have been nice. "I will, I promise."

\--

Stiles eats several helpings of potato salad, a shovel of baked beans, two ears of corn, two burgers, and tries, really truly tries, to eat a third. He gives up the ghost about two bites in, though, and groans as he leans back in his chair. "That was awesome."

Danny's mouth is hanging open. "You... that was the most food I've ever seen anyone put in their mouth in one sitting."

"Jackson really needs to stop keeping you all to himself, if you're not desensitized to Stiles eating yet," says Lydia.

Allison laughs and nods her head in agreement. "Yeah, Stiles is a bottomless pit."

Stiles just smiles with complete, utter satisfaction and he pulls up his shirt and rubs the food baby making his stomach pooch out. His eyes feel heavy from carb and starch overload, and he could basically die happy right now. "Om nom nom."

Derek snorts and Stiles looks over at him, smiling, warm and open without thinking about it. "What?" he asks, dragging the word out: _whaaaat_.

"You haven't even had dessert yet."

Stiles waves a dismissive hand. "Puh-lease. There is _always_ room for cupcakes, man. Especially when Erica made them. Erica is the Goddess of Baked Goods."

As if on cue, his dad comes out of the back door and holds it open for Erica, who is carrying a giant tray of perfectly iced red velvet cupcakes. She looks, honest to god, sweetly pleased, and Stiles knows she heard him. His smile widens and he jumps up from his seat, throwing up his arms in victory.

"Yes! I love you, Erica Reyes!"

"Flattery will never result in a threesome," says Lydia.

Stiles barks a laugh and his dad coughs, his face wry as he says, "Well, that's something I needed to hear."

Lydia's expression turns contrite instantly and she gives Stiles' dad an innocent smile. "Sorry, Sheriff."

"Yeah, yeah," he sighs, snagging a cupcake and he gives Stiles a look like he's daring him to say anything about it.

Stiles only rolls his eyes and wanders over to the table where Erica sets the tray, but before he can snag one, Derek's hand snakes out and grabs him by the wrist. This isn't really unusual behavior. Stiles gets that Derek being physical with the pack, with _him_ is part of his instincts. Not that he's always been okay with it. Derek crossed some lines that should never be crossed. It took a few conversations, some heated words from Scott, but Derek did learn appropriate limits, issued apologies that were well overdue. When Derek uses his hands now, it's not violent. That doesn't mean it doesn't look strange from the outside. Stiles' eyes go wide as he looks up at Derek because he knows without looking that his dad has gone tense behind him. Everyone's suddenly very quiet.

"Wait! Uh," Derek stops short, as if realizing that Stiles' dad is staring and grabbing Stiles isn't really helping with the anti-Derek sentiments. He lets Stiles go and clears his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets. He's more awkward than Stiles has ever seen him. "We need to sing you Happy Birthday. And Erica brought a thing for your cupcake."

Erica takes that as her cue to diffuse the quasi-standoff and she pokes Lydia in the side. "Yeah! Hey, what did you do with that sparkler? Can't have a birthday without lighting something on fire, you know."

Lydia snorts but she quickly grabs her purse and digs it out. Soon enough, Stiles has a sparkler bedecked cupcake and everyone is singing him Happy Birthday and his dad has stopped eyeballing Derek like he might throw him in jail for assault.

Eventually, they make it through cleaning up, and his dad doesn't try to stop him when he says he's leaving for Derek's with everyone else. He just pulls him in for a quick hug and tells him to not get into too much trouble.

Stiles hates when his dad worries.

\--

Firelight warms his skin against the cool October air and his gaze catches Derek's for a moment, who is adding another log to the flames. Stiles smiles, unselfconscious and content; he's sprawled out on the ground, head propped up by a rolled up blanket, and his fifth (or sixth?) beer is sweating against his palm as he holds it lazily, barely keeping it from spilling. Isaac and Boyd are setting off fireworks, they say in honor of his birthday, but Stiles suspects it has more to do with their love of explosions. He tries not to think too hard about it.

Everyone else is in various states, lounging around the flickering orange and gold, though the werewolves don't exactly need the warmth. And the other humans have their very own werewolf blanket to keep them warm.

"This is the most horribly sweet thing I have ever seen," he mutters to no one, flopping his arm over his eyes. "Even Jackson is being adorable."

"Hey, you'll find someone," says Allison, shoving at his side with her foot as she leans back against Scott's chest.

Stiles' laugh is startled and bright. Sometimes, Allison reminds him with sharp clarity why she and Scott are such a perfect couple. Because, yeah, what he needed today was a reminder that he has not, in fact, found a damn soul.

"Hey, I'm not sweating it," he says with forced indifference, waving his hand above his head before letting it flop back down at his side. "In another year, I'm sure my Google calendar will be a sea of time blocked evenings. That's what college is _for_."

Allison gives him a reassuring smile that makes him turn away, pushing himself up with only a little difficulty. He hugs his knees and finishes off his beer in two quick swallows. He doesn't want to let this sour his mood, it's his birthday, man. Okay, so it's not his birthday anymore, what with how it's past midnight by now, but that's irrelevant!

He's about to stand, wander over for another beer and to maybe blow some stuff up himself because that sounds really appealing right now, but without warning Derek is dropping down next to him. His shoulders and hips and knees bump into Stiles', and he hands Stiles a cold bottle wordlessly. Stiles looks askance, accepting the beer which has already been opened for him, and lifting an eyebrow.

Derek looks away, into the fire, and his profile is thrown into sharp relief from the glow, his eyes catching the warm light and showing green-gold, irises ringed in burning brown, and... _wow_ , Stiles is drunk.

His breath drags its way into his lungs and he jerks his head around, staring forward blindly, muscles coiled with tension. He grips the bottle so tight it squeaks under his fingertips and that snaps him out of it. Shaking it off, he takes a new drink and lets the odd feeling drift away without comment.

After a moment, Derek asks, "Where are you applying?"

Stiles knows what he's talking about without asking for clarification. The subject of college doesn't come up very often, too fraught with angst. No one wants to say it aloud, wants to make it true. After this year, they'll have one more summer, if they're lucky, and then almost everyone is going to scatter. His heart aches for all of them, but especially Derek because this isn't his second family as it is for most of them. It's his only family anymore.

Stiles' shoulders hitch up and he fidgets, picking at the label on his beer, peeling it carefully. He mumbles, "UC Irvine is at the top of the list. They've got a really great criminology department."

Derek makes a sound that Stiles can't parse and then he asks, "Criminology, huh?"

Embarrassed, Stiles ducks his head. "Um, yeah. Dunno, kind of partial to taking over the family business, you know? I like the idea of solving crimes, helping people, beating the bad guy... Plus, I figure someone in law enforcement oughta know exactly what's going on with all that bump-in-the-night stuff."

"Is Irvine your only option in California?" Derek sounds neutral, politely interested on the surface, but something about his questions makes Stiles uneasy.

"There's Fresno State, and San Diego State, too. After that... a few schools in the Midwest and some on the east coast. I think... I mean, I've got pretty good grades. I think it'll probably be Irvine." He doesn't want to sound like he's bragging. It's just... true. He took a practice run at the SATs this past spring, too, and he did really well. He'll take them one more time next month, but barring catastrophe, he feels pretty good about getting in.

The only problem is that Irvine is a ten hour drive from Beacon Hills. He's really not wild about being so far away from his dad, or... anyone else who sticks around, for that matter.

Derek's quiet for too long, but then finally he murmurs, "I'm sure you'll annoy them into letting you in. You would make a good sheriff, Stiles."

The complement makes his chest tighten unexpectedly. It feels like it turns his lungs to liquid silver, heavy and shiny and warm, like the time he got morphine at the hospital. The warmth bleeds out, fills his stomach and leaks into his limbs.

"Am I dreaming?" he asks, has to make a joke out of it otherwise the moment might stretch out forever until it snaps him in half. "Did Derek Hale just say something nice about me?"

Derek snorts and gently elbows Stiles. "Don't push it."

Without pausing to think about it, Stiles throws an arm around Derek. "I live to push it! Pushing it is the highlight of my life. I practice pushing it. I PUSH IT REAL GOOD LIKE SALT-N-PEPPA."

"Why are you guys talking about pushing it?" calls Scott.

Stiles immediately flips him off. "I push the boundaries of awesome, that's why."

The tips of his ears feel too warm all of a sudden. He sets his still full beer down because maybe he doesn't need anymore after all. His arm slides off Derek's shoulders. He tucks it in close to his chest on the pretense of huddling for warmth, and he turns his head to face Scott so that he can't see Derek.

"Yeah, well, speaking of pushing the boundaries," says Scott, standing up and dragging Allison up with him. "I've got to get her back home before we accidentally break the truce with the hunters."

"Hunters? Scott, be honest. You're terrified of her dad," snarks Jackson.

Stiles smirks but pipes up, "Only idiots aren't terrified of her dad."

Allison laughs. "I would be insulted, but.. it's kind of true."

She comes over and gives Stiles a kiss on the cheek, wishing him a happy birthday one last time before they leave.

After that, people start peeling off pretty quickly, Jackson and Danny, Lydia and Erica... Even Boyd and Isaac head back to the house, but Stiles is pretty sure that's because they've depleted their supply of fireworks.

"Oh man, I never get to be the last one standing. I always pass out first and then someone draws a dick on my face!"

"No one's ever done that," Derek says flatly, but Stiles can see a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Okay, no, but they _did_ draw whiskers on my face that one time."

"Yeah," Derek agrees, nodding his head. He's got a fond look on his face, like he's remembering the occasion and enjoying the mental image entirely too much.

Stiles hmphs and finally pushes himself up into a standing position, dusting off his ass. "Well come on, dude, let's put this fire out. I'm tired as hell and this has been a great birthday. Time to put it to bed."

There's a beat and when Stiles turns around to see what the hell Derek's doing, he nearly faceplants right into Derek's chest. His arms flail out and he laughs, feeling lightheaded from the beer and the hour. "Woah, back up, brickhouse. It's called personal space."

Derek stares back at him for a long time, so long Stiles starts to feel weird because fuck, there are Derek's _eyes_ again and belatedly Stiles realizes he's still got his hand on Derek's chest for balance. His breath quickens and he snatches it away like Derek burned him.

The spell, whatever the fuck it was, breaks, and Derek scowls. "I'll put out the fire. You'd probably fall into it. Go on up to the house, the guest bed is made up."

Nodding his head, Stiles turns around without pausing another moment. Bed. Sleep. That is what he needs.


	3. Chapter 3

Stiles has long since been convinced that his life somehow turned into an actual episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. This season, er, _year_ even rounds out with the kind of antics worthy of a truly epic finale. 

"What do you mean a coven of witches is trying to recruit you?" growls Derek. He still doesn't do very well with surprises.

"I mean," says Lydia, displaying about as much patience as she even possesses, "that some crazy woman approached me when I was getting a pedicure and told me her coven is interested in me. Okay, she was a straight up walking stereotype and when I said thanks but _no thanks_ , she walked off muttering under her breath. I'm pretty sure it was some form of gaelic that I'm not familiar with. A region-specific ancient dialect, maybe. I mean, I recognized some words, but it'll definitely require --"

"Did she cast a spell on you?" interrupts Allison, frowning. She always looks so sweetly confused when she makes that expression, and yet that is one woman it would suck to underestimate.

Arrow in the ass? No thank you!

Lydia crinkles her nose, tilting her head. She twirls a strand of hair around her finger absently. "Hmm, no, don't think so! Usually there's a certain...hmm, taste, in the air. Like mangos and chili peppers and ...cinnamon."

"That's weirdly specific," says Stiles. Boyd shrugs beside him on the couch, everyone else ignores him. 

Stiles doesn't even roll his eyes.

If possible, Erica looks even more pissed off than Derek. She's actually full-on hissing when she asks, "How do they even know about you?"

"How should I know that?" Lydia asks sweetly, big smile on her face. Her arms are crossed as she shifts from foot to foot. "I didn't join a mailing list, but I don't think it's anything to worry about it. I'm only mentioning it because if I didn't, you'd go on about me hiding things or whatever. But I'm not. Totally on the up and up."

"Well, I'm convinced," says Derek with not a little snark. He and Lydia have always butted heads; understandable, given everything.

Lydia groans. "A witch asked me to join her coven. I said no. The witch left. That's it, end of story."

Stiles knows she's not telling the whole truth, and he's pretty sure Erica and Derek do too even though Lydia's abilities make it impossible for the werewolves to actually sniff out her deception. It's just that Lydia has a tell and aside from that, Stiles knows from the little bit of research he's done that a powerful enough coven can sometimes cast nets to detect other nearby witches but they're usually looking for a reason. And he knows Lydia must know that because she's just as thorough, if not more so, when it comes to research (at least about topics relevant to her).

Why wouldn't Lydia just say that, though? Because seriously, this whole situation is making Stiles' spidey senses tingle like crazy. He's about to open his mouth to say so, but then Lydia shoots him a glare and Stiles snaps his mouth closed. He looks at the floor before anyone else can catch his eye.

"Stiles?" It's Derek, and Stiles has to keep from meeting Derek's eyes. 

"What? Why are you talking to me? I'm not a witch." He tries not to give off lying liar who lies vibes. Stiles would contend that he's not so much a _liar_ as a good friend. He's simply… withholding information at the behest of his totally awesome bro, Lydia. 

Ahem.

Still, this seriously does not sit right, but Lydia takes control of the conversation again, redirecting Derek's attention. Because she's Lydia, she manages to bully everyone into letting it go. Besides, it's December and they're all preoccupied with winter holidays and pointedly _not_ talking about college applications. Stiles is weirdly proud, though, because he knows everyone has decided to go for it, whether at their dream university or the local community college. It's kind of bittersweet, but... that's life, he supposes.

\--

Stiles leaves with everyone after the meeting, waving them off as he hops into his Jeep. He jams the key into the ignition and leans over to dig in his pocket for his phone and frowns. Huh, he could have sworn he put it in there. He checks all his other pockets and then the passenger's side of his Jeep where he sometimes tosses it, but no dice.

With a groan, he pushes his door open and gets back out. If he dropped it outside, he's gonna be so pissed. He cannot even count the number of phones he has lost or destroyed in the past two years. His dad will kill him. 

He hopes Derek isn't too busy doing… who knows what, super secret Alpha crap, maybe. Stiles makes his way back up onto the porch and lifts his hand to knock, but he never gets the chance. The door swings open in front of him and there's Derek. 

"I hate when you do that," says Stiles without any heat. He doesn't really mean it. He actually kind of thinks it's cool. Hey, what's the use in knowing werewolves if you can't at least appreciate their super creep powers?

"You're lying," replies Derek, expression flat. Stiles is less fond of that particular talent.

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, anyway, I left my phone somewhere. Did you see it when you were cleaning up?"

Derek lifts an eyebrow and wordlessly reaches into his pocket and pulls out Stiles' phone.

Stiles' mouth falls open and he immediately reaches for it, but Derek lifts it away before he can grab it. Stiles flails, off-balance by the sudden change and ends up bouncing off Derek's chest. 

"Shit, ow! Dammit, why didn't you -- why aren't you -- You know what? I don't even care. Give me my phone, Derek." Stiles really hopes he doesn't sound as whiny as he feels. He rubs at his face as he glares.

"No," says Derek. "Not until you tell me what you know about Lydia's witch situation."

Well, fuck. "Nothing, I don't know a single thing. There you go, I've told you. Now give me the cellular device in your hand and I shall depart and you can go back to brooding in solitary badassery or whatever it is you like to do with your free time."

"Stiles." Derek doesn't look impressed.

"Yes, that is my name. Four for you, Glen Coco."

Derek gets that wrinkle between his eyebrows that means he's confused _and_ annoyed. " _Stiles_!"

"When you say my name like that, it's like you somehow find extra syllables to enunciate. It's really inspiring. Although, you know, my _dad_ can do some pretty impressive things --"

A growl is all the warning Stiles gets before Derek is in his personal space, and Stiles scrambles back, almost tripping and falling on his ass. Luckily (or not so luckily, depending on the perspective), Derek grabs him by the front of the shirt and prevents him from going down. 

But then, of course, he still has Stiles by the front of the shirt. "You are not going to talk your way out of this. Tell me what you know."

Stiles really wants to get his stubborn on, but he also can't deny that he's worried about Lydia and whatever the hell is going on with the coven. He works his jaw a couple of times and then he huffs, attempting to shoo Derek's hands away.

"Okay, fine! Just -- _okay_. Let me go."

Derek snorts but does as asked, finally. Stiles straightens his shirt with a hard tug and then pushes past Derek into the house.

"First of all, if you didn't believe Lydia, why didn't you just push _her_ for more info? And second, what if I'd gone home without realizing I didn't have my phone? That was not as slick as you think it was, wolf-boy," says Stiles, stomping into the kitchen. He helps himself to the fridge, rummaging until he produces a Coke and swings the door closed.

Derek's got that sour expression, the one Stiles is privately so fond of, and Stiles is half expecting to be pushed up against a wall and ordered to start talking.

Instead, Derek rolls his eyes and _answers_. "Because Lydia would sooner hex me than tell me anything she didn't want me to know, and you always check for your phone; you've had to replace it too many times. So, I am exactly as slick as I think I am." 

"Is it too late to vote for Scott as pack Alpha?" mutters Stiles, trying desperately not to read too much into Derek coming to him for help, Derek trusting him with answers instead of delivering ultimatums. 

Derek growls and steals Stiles' drink. "Quit stalling."

"Hey," he huffs, tracking the red soda can for a moment before he gives in, shoulders slumping. He's always going to help Derek. He doesn't know why he's even pretending otherwise. "Ugh, whatever."

He wanders into the living room and falls utterly without grace onto the couch. "So. Witches. I mean, I don't know much, honestly, but what I do know is that it takes some serious mojo to cast a locating spell, especially when your mark is sight unseen. And it takes a pretty substantial coven to provide that power without sapping everyone's reserves dangerously low. I mean, unless someone who already knows about Lydia let it slip to the wrong people, but come on, would any of us risk Lydia's wrath?"

Derek gives him a pointed look. "You risk everyone's wrath all the time."

Stiles actually laughs. "Yeah, but only when I know I'm right and you guys are wrong, dude. I wouldn't do anything that stupid. I haven't even told my _dad_ about any of this yet. Anyway, the coven was basically casting a wide net and hoping to find someone with magical ability in the vicinity. The move just reeks of desperation."

Dropping down on the couch next to Stiles, Derek pops the tab on _Stiles' soda, that bastard_ , and takes a drink. "Is there any way to figure out what they're up to?" 

Stiles glares and Derek huffs and holds the can out. 

"Now it has werewolf cooties," he complains, but grabs it anyway and takes a long drink, smacking his lips after. "Thanks, and no, not really. I mean, unless we found someone from the coven and made them talk somehow."

Derek perks up.

"No!" Stiles shakes his head. "Absolutely not, I am out of the kidnapping business. I promised my dad after the last time. Do you know he almost sent me off to military school over that?"

"No he didn't," says Derek immediately, dismissing Stiles. 

And okay, that's true because his dad would never do anything like that, but he _did_ ground Stiles for a long ass time. In fact, Stiles is pretty sure he's still technically grounded. It helped when his dad got his job back, though.

"Okay, fine, he didn't, but the point remains: I am not kidnapping anyone. Or stalking. Or doing anything illegal!"

Derek takes away his Coke again. Stiles does not pout.

"Wait here," Derek says, getting up and walking out. Stiles frowns but crosses his arms and waits.

When Derek returns, he's carrying two books. "These are on witchcraft, mostly local legend, traditions, a few spells. They may be helpful."

Stiles lifts his eyebrows, his face pinching with confusion. "You... want me to read them?"

He usually has to badger Derek into letting him have a crack at the books in his library, the ones locked in the glass case. Somehow he knows these books come from there.

Derek scowls. "No, I want you to sleep with them under your pillow at night and hope you absorb them by osmosis."

Stiles huffs but takes the books quickly when Derek holds them out. "I'll be careful with them."

"I know," Derek says, shrugging like it's no big deal. Stiles knows that's not true. These books were some of the only things that weren't destroyed in the fire, kept in a small fireproof safe, invaluable Hale relics. 

He clutches them to his chest and promises, "We'll figure it out."

\--

"Stiles!"

Stiles' shoulders slump and he turns around to see Lydia striding towards him, green peacoat over a silver skirt and black tights. With her red hair curling out and twisting in the wind like a living thing, she looks like a cross between a Slytherin and a Christmas elf. It's an interesting juxtaposition. This leads Stiles into a whole aside in which he attempts to figure out if Lydia would be sorted into Slytherin or Ravenclaw. Cases can be made for both.

There's also the small matter of the werewolf trailing behind her. Only Lydia could leave a werewolf in the dust. Erica looks as frazzled as Stiles suddenly feels. This can't be good.

"Yes?" Stiles isn't so much hoping that Lydia hasn't found out as trying to avoid appearing as anxious as his heartbeat might indicate. He's not sure he ever really held out much hope, but he was perhaps a shade too optimistic on the timeline of Lydia discovering that the wolves know.

"You. Told. Derek!" Lydia snarls.

"Wow, so no pleasantries at all, huh? Man, the manners in this pack..." He trails off at the death glare Lydia shoots him. He crosses his arms defiantly. "So? You should have!"

"I can handle a bunch of busybody witches! What I _cannot_ handle is a nonstop werewolf detail or you and your pet Alpha meddling in things you don't understand! I love my girlfriend" -- she shoots one of her patented patronizing smiles toward Erica which earns her a sneer -- "and being part of this pack, but magic is _my_ business. You had no right --"

Erica cuts her off. "Don't you dare, Lydia. Stiles had every right, this pack has a right to look after its own."

Stiles can't even jump in. He's too stuck on the _pet Alpha_ accusation. Derek would eviscerate all of them. He'll just forget it ever happened and chalk it up to Lydia being Lydia.

"This _pack_ ," Lydia spits the word, "is about as subtle as a crash of stampeding rhinos! Trust me when I say that witches are never impressed or amused by a bunch of posturing, territorial wolves."

"But they _are_ on our territory and they approached someone under _our_ protection." Erica's eyes are lighting up gold now and Stiles can maybe see Lydia's point about their stunning lack of stealth.

"Okay," Stiles says through his teeth, laughing nervously. "Time to take this indoors. You know, off a public street where _anyone could see or overhear_."

Lydia narrows her eyes at both of them, looking back and forth slowly before she snaps, "You two can take this wherever the hell you want. I'm going."

Erica makes an exasperated sound and starts to follow Lydia regardless, but Lydia's eyes flash and Erica is knocked to the ground by invisible hands, landing at Stiles' feet. Stiles gapes and Erica looks stunned as they both watch Lydia disappear around a corner.

"This is bad," says Stiles, more to himself than to Erica.

"Are you taking lessons in stating the obvious from Isaac?" snaps Erica, ignoring Stiles' offer of help and picking herself up off the ground.

"Oh, bite me." Stiles wrinkles his nose and curls his lip. "You're the one who couldn't keep her from figuring out something was up for one single day."

Erica looks like she wants to argue but then she sighs and grabs Stiles' hand, dragging him down the sidewalk. "Come on, I have to tell Derek and maybe he won't kill me if you're there."

"Me? Are you kidding? I think you have me confused with someone else because I sure as hell can't keep him from doing a damn thing he sets his mind on."

"It's cute how oblivious you are sometimes, really." Erica smirks, coming to a stop in front of Stiles' Jeep.

"What?" he asks, feeling stupid.

"Nothing; now give me your keys, I'm driving."

"What?" Stiles repeats and then flails, jerking away from Erica as she practically molest him, searching his pockets for the keys. "Oh my _god_ , I hate werewolves!"

Erica mumbles something in reply that Stiles doesn't quite catch but he can tell by her evil expression that he would not have approved. 

"You're _not_ driving," he says stubbornly, and Erica finally relents and steps back.

"Fine, then you are. Get in the Jeep."

Stiles knows how to pick his battles and this is not a hill he's willing to die on, so he sighs and stomps over to the driver's side door. Werewolves are the worst.

\--

Turns out, Stiles' observation is in the running for understatement of the decade. This is _beyond_ bad. It's catastrophic. 

"I made a few calls," Derek says, after he's calmed down enough to stop growling nonstop at Erica. 

"And?" Stiles snaps impatiently. This is _not_ the time for Derek to get cagey with information.

Derek's eyes are burning with that low level of _murder_ that always makes the hairs stand up on the back of Stiles' neck. "Apparently, there's been a pattern in the northwest region. Young men and women coerced into some coven, an old one by the sounds of it."

Stiles' brain asks the same question it always does. "But _why_?"

"Doesn't matter," he replies, which is Derek-speak for ' _I don't know_.'

"The hell it doesn't. Derek, do you not get -- if this is -- if these witches have been taking magical people by force for their coven, if they've been finding all of them with a locating spell, then they are more powerful than I thought. They either cast a big enough spell to drag their net across an entire corner of North America, or they cast it multiple times. That's -- that's not even talking about what they've done to actually do the coercing. I've been reading those books you lent me. That kind of thing is dark, _dark_ magic." Stiles' heart is hammering with fear, for them, for Lydia, for the look in Derek's eyes that says he's going to do something dangerous and stupid.

"Lydia is pack." It's a simple declaration and yet Stiles knows exactly how complicated and messy and _important_ those words are to Derek.

It's Derek's fundamental truth. It's what finally let Stiles trust Derek to begin with.

Pack is family. Family is everything.

"Please," says Stiles, and he wonders vaguely why his throat feels so raw all the sudden. "Let me do more research. I'm -- I'm all for attack, Derek, but we need to know exactly what we're dealing with. You can't just go off half-cocked and --" 

Derek's already turning away from him, already stopped _listening_.

Stiles breaks. "HEY STUBBORN ASS, LISTEN TO ME. You told me once you were always listening. Well, I'm trying to _tell_ you something and you're going to listen even if I have to scream it at you!"

He knows he's crossed a line. Derek freezes, and then he turns to Erica who is watching them both with wide eyes. "Go find Boyd and Isaac. We're going to need them. Jackson, too, if he'll answer his phone. Not Scott, though. If he knows, Allison knows, and I don't want the hunters in on this unless we have no other choice. Don't bother coming back here, either. You can meet me at the old warehouse."

Erica's gone in a blink, giving a stiff nod and marching out the door with her orders. 

And leaving Stiles all alone with Derek.

"Derek --" Stiles starts, but it's useless because as soon as Derek cuts him a look, he goes quiet.

"No." It's all Derek says at first and it's like a stone sitting on Stiles' chest.

Stiles wants to say more, he wants to rage and apologize and scream, just like he said. He's sure Derek can hear his heartbeat, can smell his confusion and frustration and fear.

Derek seems undecided about something, though, his jaw clicking audibly as he stares at Stiles, but then he takes a sharp breath. His voice is low, dangerous and halting as he says, "You can't -- you cannot use my feelings for you as leverage to get your way, and never in front of -- of my pack."

Stiles can't breathe.

None of this makes sense. Derek might as well be speaking another fucking language. Stiles is stunned, and his eyes sting and his chest aches and _none of this makes any sense_. 

"Your... feelings. For me," he repeats, looking down and away, like maybe the baseboard behind Derek's feet will hold the answers.

Answers to questions he didn't even know he should be asking.

"Yes, my _feelings_ ," Derek spits, like it's a dirty word. "And I've respected that you don't exactly reciprocate, but you -- this is my pack, I'm Alpha. And you can't ever do that again."

Stiles is going to nod. He is. He's just going to agree with whatever Derek wants and he's going to let this go because it's clear he's been hurting Derek without even meaning to, without ever knowing. He feels sick. He feels sick to death and _stupid_.

So he's just going to fucking _nod_ , dammit.

"How do you know?" He jerks his head up, feeling just as shocked as Derek looks.

"How do I know what?" asks Derek. Stiles would swear he's being.. careful, wary; that's he's _scared_.

It breaks Stiles' heart. "That I don't feel the same."

Derek's eyes flash, and between one breath and the next, Derek has Stiles pinned against the wall, and... and he's kissing Stiles.

Hungry, hard, desperate kisses, as if Derek is trying to devour his soul, as if that might make up for all the hurt and resentment Stiles can feel behind every press of lips and tongue. It makes his lungs feel too big for his ribs.

Stiles makes a pained noise, and he raises his hands to wrap his arms around Derek, to drag him in _closer_. It's too late, though. The kiss is over as fast as it started. Derek is across the room when Stiles blinks, and Stiles pushes his palms to the wall to keep himself upright. 

Derek looks haunted. "I -- I'm -- I have to go."

And then he's gone.

\--

Stiles doesn't know exactly how long he stands there in Derek's home, all by himself, staring at nothing. It's a while, he's pretty sure, because the sun has set and... was it daytime when Derek left? He can't remember.

He's especially not sure how much _longer_ he might have stood there if the door hadn't burst open, Jackson and Boyd dragging in an injured Isaac whose mouth and chin are splattered with that awful black _stuff_. That stuff that means absolutely nothing good.

"What happened? Where's Derek?" he asks, legs propelling him forward to direct them into the living room so they can lay Isaac on the couch.

"We found the witches," Boyd says evenly, but he doesn't take his eyes off of Isaac as he bends low to press his palm to Isaac's forehead and then wipe his face clean. 

Stiles tries to make himself count backwards from ten, but only gets to _seven_ before he shouts, "THAT IS NOT USEFUL INFORMATION, BOYD."

Boyd's eyes are gold, his fangs long and sharp as he snarls at Stiles, "If you want to talk about useful, you can damn well get on the fucking phone and get everyone _here_ because those witches have Erica and Derek, and I honestly don't even know if they're still alive."

Stiles' blood runs cold.

\--

"What the fuck?" Stiles asks no one and everyone at once, scrubbing his fingertips against his scalp. He honestly doesn't even remember calling anyone, doesn't remember helping Boyd figure out what form of wolfsbane the witches used on Isaac, doesn't remember burning it and pouring it down Isaac's throat while Boyd held his straining jaw open, doesn't remember Isaac's howls as he healed. 

At least, Stiles doesn't want to remember. "I mean, what the _actual_ fuck?"

"Stiles, calm down," says Scott. 

"Maybe I don't want to calm down. You realize they are holding both Derek and Erica hostage, right? That they almost _killed_ Isaac? They have an Alpha fucking werewolf at their mercy and... and _Erica_ , who is sort of the epitome of a distress-less damsel!" Stiles shouts, pausing only to take a breath. "Would you like a list or perhaps a spreadsheet or maybe a _graph_ detailing all the ways this is really, really horrible and worth freaking out over? Or maybe we could even actually _do something_ about it?"

"We need to wait. We need to figure out how to --"

"Scott," says Lydia, who up until now has been quiet, withdrawn, completely and utterly unlike herself, which was not exactly reassuring. Especially considering that Stiles expected something closer to fury when she found out the werewolves moved on the witches without even consulting her.

Everyone goes silent immediately and whips around to look at her. She's staring at the ground, a still quality about her that makes goosebumps rise on Stiles' arms. When she lifts her gaze, her green eyes look like flames.

"We're going to get them back. Stiles and I are going, you can stay or you can come with us, but we are going. to. get. them."

"Yeah," says Stiles, his mouth gone dry. "What she said."

He's not even sure how this happened. Wasn't he the one telling Derek to _wait_? Less than six hours ago, he all but begged for Derek to let him do a little more research first. But that was before.

Now, he doesn't care. He wants blood. He wants Derek back. He knows Lydia feels the same about Erica.

Scott's eyes glow gold and he growls, and for a moment Stiles thinks things are about to get about a million times worse, but then he snaps, "Fine!"

Behind Scott, Stiles sees Allison relax visibly. She lifts her bow and puts it over her shoulder, which seems to be the signal everyone else was waiting for, because they all stand.

 _We're going to war_ , Stiles thinks, feeling hysterical.

Scott crosses his arms. "But we still need a plan." 

A flicker of something, words on a page, runs through Stiles' mind.

"Lydia, how confident do you feel about your magic right now?" he asks, doesn't care if she gets offended. Stiles does not have time for her to get touchy about how her abilities falter and surge.

"Pretty good," she says as every light in the house flickers. "Why?"

Stiles swallows. "Because I think I have an idea."

\--

It's almost hilarious. It's ironic, really. 

He's racing to his house to get Derek's books so that Lydia can maybe, hopefully do a spell that might prevent this all from going entirely sideways. He's worried about _witches_ and magic and curses.

He's not worried about vengeful trolls.

Which, now that Stiles thinks about it, maybe he should have been.

The last thing Stiles remembers is hitting the concrete barrier on the bridge.


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing Stiles is conscious of is the taste of blood, thick and sharp and sticky as he licks his lips. There's also the matter of how he can't seem to catch his breath, and he's sucking in air in shallow, rapid bursts that aren't getting enough oxygen to his brain. He thinks maybe he's having a panic attack and it terrifies him.

Stiles tries to force himself to slow down, to take deeper breaths, but pain stabs through his right side and into his chest. He's momentarily stunned, crying out as his eyes go wide for the first time.

Everything is hazy and dark, only a few lights are still shining on the bridge, but they're dim in the distance. His eyes are burning and watery, and he blinks again and again, trying to clear his vision. It doesn't work, and he realizes belatedly that steam or smoke is rising from his engine, making it even harder to see. He's so _dizzy_ , too, and his stomach is rolling and he just wants to go to sleep.

And then he hears the roars.

The trolls.

Panic lances through him, adrenaline spiking and he lets out a sob as he forces his arms to move. His left wrist is on fire. Nothing is responding the way it should. His hands are clumsy and slow, unsteady as he fumbles at his seatbelt. No matter how much he tugs, he can't seem to put enough force behind the motion, though, and either he's a lot weaker than he thinks (entirely possible) or the wreck somehow jammed the buckle (also probable). 

He's already feeling exhausted again by the time he gives up. There's more roaring, and it sounds so close. He can feel vibrations on the bridge, hear metal screaming and clanging and crashing. He tries not to break down, but it's hard because he's _trapped_ and his whole body _hurts_. 

Trolls are going to kill him and he doesn't know what to do. For once, no brilliant ideas are popping into his overactive brain and he feels utterly helpless in a way he hasn't in a long, long time.

And then there's the horrible sinking feeling that the rest of the pack isn't going to figure out what happened quickly enough. They're not going to be able to find the right book, Lydia's not going to cast the right spell. They're going to _fail_ to save Derek or Erica, and hell, probably even Lydia, because the witches are going to take her. And it's all Stiles' fault.

Cause, see, Stiles knows why this is happening. This is happening because Stiles killed those other trolls, their young. But he had to, he did, they were going to kill Stiles' pack, they were going to hurt people. Stiles had to put them down. There was no other _choice_ , dammit. 

He coughs and almost blacks out from the searing pain. Hot, salty tears track down his face and Stiles can't even be bothered to wipe them away. He's going to die here, on this bridge. He can hear the stomps of the trolls growing closer. He doesn't know what's taking them so long anyway. 

Maybe they want him to suffer. He always thought of trolls as stupid monsters, nothing but mindless, instinct-driven animals. He never thought they'd be able to identify who killed the other trolls, let alone orchestrate an elaborate ambush. They'd been waiting for _him_.

God, he was _so_ wrong. 

He tries to shift in his seat, to see out the shattered window, but all he can really make out through the darkness and the billowing steam is the bent hood of his Jeep, folded up. 

For some reason, that right there sends him completely over the edge. His tears come faster and it's not helping the pain in his side. He feels like he might choke on every sob. His mom's Jeep is totaled, and his dad never wanted him to drive it. 

He said it was too dangerous, but Stiles _begged_. He shamelessly needled and whined because it was hers and he wanted it, and he finally made his dad give in. And now Stiles is going to die in it, and it's ruined and he knows his dad is going to blame himself. His dad will never understand, never know the truth.

His dad is going to be alone, and that scares him more than any of it.

That's when he notices the first _split...splat...splitsplitsplit...splat_. 

It's raining. 

Hell, it's not just raining, it's instantly become a torrent of water, pouring down without warning. Thunder rumbles overhead and it's like a gavel calling Stiles' brain to order because it's raining and it _shouldn't be_. They're in the middle of a damn cold front. It should be snowing, if anything, but it rarely does that anyway. And now that he's paying attention, he can feel the humidity in the air, smell the sharp scent of ozone, and oh god, _why is it raining_?

Lightning breaks across the sky, illuminating everything in one startling moment. Stiles' heart thumps wildly in his chest because lightning kills trolls. Someone is using actual, real lightning like out of the damn legends.

Lydia. It must be her. Lydia is on the bridge and Lydia is controlling the _weather_ , and holy hell, Stiles doesn't know if he should be horrified or impressed. Either way, he can't help the flood of pure relief. 

Please let this work, it has to work. 

He counts the flashes, _one, two, threefourfive...six._ They stop, and Stiles holds his breath, rubs his good hand over his face trying to wipe away the sweat and tears. And then suddenly, he sees the glow of several pairs of eyes and the glint of Lydia's strawberry blonde hair coming closer as the rain dies out. 

His door gets wrenched open by Boyd.

"Hey man," Boyd says easily, reaching inside and shredding the seatbelt keeping Stiles in place with one flick of his wrist. "Who taught you how to drive? Don't you know you're supposed to steer _away_ from walls and mythical creatures?"

Stiles' laugh comes out somewhat hysterical. "How did -- how did you know I was -- that I needed you guys?"

Scott shakes his head. "I don't know. I just... we just knew."

Stiles opens his mouth to argue because that's impossible and stupid, but it's cut off by his own hiss of pain as he tries to move. 

Lydia's reprimand is shrill as she pushes Boyd out of the way and puts a firm but gentle hand on his shoulder. "Don't _move_ , you idiot. You've been in a wreck, don't you know anything?" 

"Shut up, I'm -- ugh, I'm _fine_ ," he groans as he forces his legs, one at a time, over the side. He pushes her arm away, and her mouth falls open in annoyance. Scott and Isaac are hovering behind Boyd and Stiles takes a breath and forces himself not to wince in pain. "Just help me up, fuck. Did you get them all? God, we need to go before the someone calls this in and my _dad_ shows up. We have to get that book."

Stiles reaches out and grabs onto Boyd's shoulder, biting his tongue so hard, he tastes blood again, but he manages to pull himself up this time, even as he grunts in pain. Lydia glares at him, taking a breath as if to yell at him some more, but Stiles glares right back, willing his shaking legs to not give out. "I don't want to hear it! We need to leave _now_."

Scott shifts from foot to foot, his expression anxious as he looks over Stiles. "Man, you look rough. I don't think -- maybe you should just wait here for an ambulance."

"We're not leaving him alone!" shrieks Lydia. 

"You're not leaving me _anywhere_." Stiles cradles his arm against his chest and tries not to think about the stabbing pain in his ribs and the way his head is throbbing. "We're going to my house, we're getting that book, and we're rescuing Derek and Erica. And if anyone has a problem with that, then they can kiss my pale, skinny ass."

Isaac snorts and everyone else gapes. Stiles takes a hesitant step forward and when he stays upright, he snaps, "Now let's _move_."

They exchange helpless gazes and Lydia _really_ does not look pleased, but Stiles knows just as well as they do that they don't have a whole lot of options. If the police get here before they leave, they're going to have a hard time getting to Derek and Erica. Hell, it may already be too late, but no one wants to admit that.

"Fine, but you're going to the hospital as soon as we get them back," says Lydia, obviously frustrated and more than a little reluctant. 

Stiles gives a short nod because he is so not arguing with that, but hell if he's going to let them know exactly how much pain he's in right now. Instead he leans heavily on Boyd and they hurry to the end of the bridge where Jackson and Allison are waiting. 

Stiles sees the dead trolls and has a moment to think that maybe -- maybe they should clean them up? But then the wolves all go still and Scott snaps, "I hear an engine, someone's coming up the road."

Which means someone's about to see this mess and they're going to call the Sheriff. His dad is going to _flip_ , but Stiles can't even take that into consideration. He just has to hope his dad will somehow forgive him for this because they have to go _now_ before someone sees them.

\--

Stiles wishes desperately for a police scanner. He has one in his Jeep, but his Jeep... isn't here. They see car after car race past them once they get closer to town, flashing lights zooming out in the direction of the bridge. Stiles keeps his head ducked down and concentrates on not throwing up. He probably has a concussion to go along with the rest of his injuries, and he knows he has one hell of a gash on his brow.

Allison makes a right and takes them off the main road and onto Stiles' street, pulling up in front of his house with a screech. Stiles breathes through his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut to fight off the wave of nausea. 

"The books -- they're under my bed, right under the foot, on the side closest to the window," he tells Lydia without opening his eyes.

She gives an irritable huff. "Stiles, why don't you just stay here while we --" 

"No." Stiles opens his eyes, staring back with all the resolve he can muster. "I'm going with you, we are not having this argument. You are wasting time. Get the books."

Lydia looks like she'd rather wear thrift store plaid than let this go, but her mouth snaps shut and she gets out of the car, slamming the door behind her. 

Stiles knows he should stay behind, no question about that. He's seeing spots and when he peeks under his shirt while Allison and Scott are distracted, his entire side is a hot, mottled red and livid purple and painful to the touch. He is so fucked.

Doesn't matter, he is seeing this through and even though Lydia is much more knowledgeable on spells, she's never seen the one in the book before and Stiles already took the time to do some preliminary research when he first ran across it. She's going to need him, whether or not she'll admit it.

Scott's phone rings out in the quiet as they wait and it startles them all. He glances at it and immediately blanches. "It's your dad, Stiles."

His stomach flips. "Don't answer it."

"He's gonna be worried, dude," says Scott, shifting in his seat. 

It's kind of sweet how anxious Scott is about it, but Stiles shakes his head. "I know, but if he knows where I am -- it'll be bad, okay? Just, send it to voicemail and then turn it off."

Scott does, but Stiles can tell he doesn't want to. Which... well, _tough_ , because Stiles doesn't want to do it either. But they all do lots of things that aren't all that appealing because their lives are a friggin' sideshow. 

He's glad that Lydia returns then because that means they can leave and Stiles can put his energy into walking Lydia through this spell as they speed toward the witches' _evil lair_ or whatever the hell. 

"It's a fealty spell," he says, carefully keeping his injured wrist to the side as opens the book on his lap. "It's not... most witches won't do it, it ties you up with a pack forever. It's powerful magic, almost dark in some cases."

He finds the right page and points to it as Lydia leans over him. "What does it do exactly, how will it help?"

"If my research is right?" Stiles says, wishing he didn't feel so tired, wishing his bones weren't aching right now. "Basically killing any member of the pack becomes way too damn risky. The witch has to be killed first, but here's the cool part, the witch can draw power from the pack, so killing him or her is also pretty dicey.It's just kind of a sacrifice for the witch because... well, there's a catch."

"I'm waiting," says Lydia, an edge to her voice.

Stiles' feels short of breath, too much pressure on his chest. He blinks at the scattering of black floating in his field of vision. "Um, you... you can't use magic that's not in service of the pack anymore. It's... the power and protection comes at a price."

Lydia is quiet for a long while and Stiles tries to watch her, but eventually he has to lean back against the seat, letting his eyes drift closed while his mind runs in circles. It's a lot to ask, especially from Lydia, who they once let fall to Peter, who they ignored and pushed aside. Another mistake he feels the weight of, the burden sitting heavy on his shoulders. 

When it feels like his whole world might get swallowed up in the darkness, Lydia clears her throat and Stiles opens his eyes.

"I'll do it," she says. "I'll do whatever it takes to get Erica and Derek back from them. How do we do this?"

Stiles breathes just a little bit easier at those words. "You work the spell, but it has to be done in the presence of the Alpha, so we have to -- somehow we have to get in the same room as Derek."

"Well, here's hoping they like to show off," says Scott from the front.

Lydia makes a bitter noise. "They're witches. Of course they like to show off."

"They're gonna know we're coming for them," says Allison. She's following closely behind the Camaro, eyes sharp and watchful as she makes each turn effortlessly.

"But they're not going to know what we're coming with," says Lydia. 

Stiles licks his lips and tastes the cold sweat collecting on his face. He shivers and clutches at the book that holds their only hope. Like Obi-Wan freakin' Kenobi. Fuck, he's not sure how he's going to get through this, but if time and experience has taught him anything, it's that as a team, they can beat anything. 

_The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives._

He snorts at himself. Maybe he shouldn't be quoting _A Song of Ice and Fire_ right now. Everyone fucking dies in those books. 

Stiles can feel it, the moment they get in range of the coven, and he sees Lydia stiffen beside him. There's a certain buzz, like static electricity gone horribly wrong. It sends a frisson of icy worry racing down Stiles' spine and his knuckles go white as his grip tightens on the book. 

"Any chance you'll actually stay in the car?" asks Scott as they pull over at the end of a gravel drive, a house in the barely visible distance. "You are paler than that time you dressed up like a vampire for Halloween, dude."

Stiles doesn't even answer, just holds his breath as he opens the car door and makes his body move. 

"Idiot," mutters Lydia behind him, but he ignores her in favor of relearning how to walk. 

He doesn't fight it, though, when the pack moves in front of him and around him, shielding him with their bodies, Lydia beside him. While he's not wild about anyone putting themselves in harm's way over _him_ , he knows their protection will be the only thing that might mean he sees the other side of this. There's also no way he'll be able to talk their stubborn asses out of it. 

He has a moment of thinking he should have stayed behind like everyone suggested, but really, every single person needs to have their hands free for fighting, or spellcasting in Lydia's case, but she also needs the book on hand, in case any last minute adjustments need to be made to the word choice. Spells are far too organic for straightforward memorization, especially this one. Like it or not, Stiles needs to be here.

It's getting harder to breathe, harder to walk, but he ignores the warning signs from his body and sets his gaze determinedly on the horizon. The house they're approaching is horribly cliche. Shutters hang lopsided from the siding which is in desperate need of two or six coats of paint. There's an overrun garden in the front yard, and ivy crawls up the brick columns on the wraparound porch. The house has clearly been abandoned for ages.

"That's not suspect or anything," Stiles mutters, though it comes out more wheezy than snarky. "What kind of witches _are_ these anyway? If they're dressed in all black, I call bullshit."

"I told you," hisses Lydia. "And anyway, be quiet."

"That's a nice sentiment, Lydia, but I'm pretty sure they already know we're here," says Jackson, and Stiles can't disagree because hey, there's a fucking _witch_ standing in the doorway as they reach the end of the drive.

"The snake speaks the truth. We've been waiting for you." She's got gray-blond hair that looks as overgrown as the garden, frizzy and too long, and her skin is the kind of paper thin that's bordering on translucent. She looks both old and young at the same time, and she is seriously straight out of some kind of fairytale. 

"I suppose you would be, what with how you _took our friends_." Stiles' heart hammers, pumping so much adrenaline through his veins, he can't even feel his injuries anymore, which is both helpful and probably really bad. 

Lydia glares at him, and for once, Stiles knows exactly what she's thinking. He can practically hear her voice in his head. _Don't draw attention to yourself, idiot. You're hurt!_

Too late, Stiles thinks, because the witch's flat blue eyes are on him now, a smirk Stiles really isn't fond of spreading across her face. "We didn't expect to see you here, Stiles, but it is nice to finally meet you."

Stiles freezes and he can feel several pairs of eyes on him suddenly. "Excuse me?"

"We assumed the trolls would take care of you, but no matter," she says with a shrug, and seriously? 'The snake speaks the truth,' 'No matter?' Is she for real?

"You are taking this witch thing _way_ too seriously, lady. Who are you supposed to be, Elphaba?"

Her expression darkens. "I'm Sarah. And you don't take yourself seriously enough, do you, Stiles? But I'm afraid I don't have time to illuminate all the ways you've sold yourself short, being bound to an Alpha and his pack."

Stiles is not one-hundred percent sure he's not _hallucinating_ , what with how he's got a pretty bitchin' headwound and also there's the part where he can taste blood at the back of his throat now. It's weird though, because it tastes off. It tastes like something else, too.

His tongue burns and he tries to swallow against it, but his mouth's gone dry. "How do you know my -- I mean, _what_?"

She steps forward, and three more witches appear behind her, a tall Indian girl with ink-black hair, a pale red-haired man, and a whispy brown-haired woman with watery gray eyes. They're not dressed all in black, but they're still pretty intimidating, especially because they drag Derek and Erica out with them. They're unconscious and bound with what are most likely wolfsbane laced ropes, and they barely look alive. 

The wolves all start growling around him, a low level rumble that feels like a hum living under his skin. Horrified dread curls in Stiles' stomach and that's before Sarah sighs, as if she's disappointed in him. " _Fidelitas Lupus_ , child. Do you think you're the only one with a book like that?" 

She points one long, delicate finger at the book Stiles is grasping like a lifeline. Panic bursts in his chest. That's their spell, _the_ spell, their only hope, and the coven already knows about it. But...

But that means they think _Stiles_ is the one bound to the pack even though Lydia hasn't performed the spell yet, not to mention the fact that Stiles isn't a witch. Stiles isn't anything. He's -- he's a party trick compared to Lydia. He has no innate magic, only the feeble ability to... to be a conduit, a spark.

"I think you're making a big mistake," says Lydia, and Stiles is amazed that she sounds so sure, so commanding when Stiles himself feels like his heart my burst out of his chest at any moment. "I think you should let them go, and I think you shouldn't underestimate anyone in this pack."

"Oh you are feisty, aren't you? But believe me, we're not underestimating anyone, Lydia," says Sarah, turning her chilling gaze away from Stiles. "But a pack can only have a single _fidēlis_ , and you saddled them with one that can't even produce magic on his own. It was a selfishly clever trick, but it's left you vulnerable along with them. This would have been so much easier if you'd just come quietly, dear, but now we have to kill them or risk exposure."

"You know, that's an interesting theory you've got," says Lydia, and Stiles is sure she looks suitably badass right now, but he can't drag his eyes away from _Derek_ , from the scene on the porch.

The witch tips her head as if she's nothing more than mildly confused, but Stiles can see the beginning of worry etched around her eyes. "And what, pray tell, makes it so interesting?"

"That you think Stiles is the _fidēlis_."

Sarah's expression resolves and she rolls her eyes. "Your bluff won't work, girl. We know he is, we couldn't kill the Alpha without considerable cost. They're tied together; the boy must die first." 

Well that makes absolutely _no_ fucking sense. It also has Lydia stepping in front of him and the wolves pulling him back, crowding around him. Allison notches an arrow in her bowstring. Oh god, he's so _unsteady_ still, wobbly and light-headed, and he doesn't understand any of this.

This was supposed to be the plan for Lydia. This is what they came here to do. Bind her to the pack and she's useless to the witches. Bind her to the pack and the witches have to go through her to kill the wolves, and no one wants to go head on against a witch pledged to a pack of werewolves. It ends badly for everyone. It was supposed to make the coven walk away, leave them alone so they could be the hunters' problem, not the pack's. 

And now it's all going sideways and there's absolutely no reason for it. He's not bound to Derek. He's just... just a human with poor self-preservation instincts. His knees feel like they might give out, but the wall of werewolves closes in some more.

Lydia's eyes narrow. "I won't let you hurt him." 

Sarah smirks. She thrusts out her hand in front of her, palm up, and Lydia drops to her knees. Any pretense of politeness, of pleasant discussion is gone. Her voice is ground glass. "You'll do what you're _told_."

Lydia lets out a shocked, furious sound and Allison instantly lets her arrow fly, already notching another in place even as the first turns to ash just before reaching the witch. It may not hit its mark, but it's still effective in disturbing Sarah's concentration. 

Lydia gasps like her head is breaking the water's surface after she's been held under, and Stiles sees their only opportunity. He lurches forward, twisting his body out of reach of the werewolves and hitting the ground as his eyes roll back in his head from the crashing, lancing pain, but he hisses, "Do it now, he's close enough, just _do it_." 

Lydia's whole body shudders and suddenly, he knows what the taste in his mouth is. It's _cinnamon_ , and Lydia's mouth slides over the consonants and vowels, curls around the words with precise, delicate enunciation, and there's a burst of movement around them, arrows and fur flying, the sizzle of spells burning in the air. Still, Lydia spins the web, brighter and brighter. Stiles can feel its warmth bleeding into him, and he can feel the moment it falters.

He forces his eyes open and he can see Sarah standing in front of them, he can see her eyes bright like fire, her malevolent expression freezing and burning Stiles from the inside out. His lip curls and he feels an actual _snarl_ building in his chest. With one last wrench of effort, he grabs hold of Lydia's arm and just _wills_ it to work, face screwing up and breath choking in his throat. And he doesn't care if he dies, so long as this works. Please let this work, please let the witches be wrong about his connection to Derek, please let Lydia save them.

He can feel the spell course through him and back into Lydia, can feel the loop making it stronger, making Lydia stronger, making the spell crest and pour out in waves of gold and orange and red, licking over them like flames, wrapping around the wolves and around Stiles. They all drop, a shiver running over them, and black edges into Stiles' vision, swimming up and pulling him down.

He blinks hard, fighting against unconsciousness, gritting his teeth against the panic and the grinding, cutting pain in his chest, against the hot burst of copper on his tongue. He keeps his eyes locked on Sarah's shocked, terrified face as Lydia stands. 

"That's -- that's impossible. A pack can't have a second _fidēlis_ , they CAN'T!" screams Sarah, taking a stumbling step back. The other witches have stopped, too, staring on in surprise.

"No, you're right. They can't, but the bond between werewolves and their mates is a powerful thing, one rife with possibility," replies Lydia.

Sarah's face twists with pure malice, her eyes locking on Stiles, as if _Stiles_ isn't just as fucking confused about what just happened as they are, as if he somehow orchestrated all of this. It makes him want to recoil, to lash out, to run, and to fight all at once, but he can't do any of that. He can barely breathe. 

"You!" she hisses, and lifts her arm as if to call down destruction. 

Two things happen at once. Allison lets loose another arrow, and Lydia raises her hand.

Everything is blurry right now, and everything is spinning, but Stiles is certain, he is absolutely fucking _sure_ that Allison's arrow passes straight through Lydia's outstretched hand. With a burst of sparks and a flash of power Stiles can feel in his _bones_ , it finds its target, burying into Sarah's skull. As if in slow motion, she falls from the porch and lands with a sick thunk at Lydia's feet.

"Bullseye, bitch," mutters Stiles, because really, someone had to say it. He gives a weak, wet-sounding laugh as several pairs of eyes swing towards him and he tries to say more, but it ends in a racking cough that suddenly won't stop. He can't get enough _air_ , he can't even see what's happening in front of him.

This is really beginning to be a nasty habit, he thinks, sinking into blood-tinged darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

Stiles gets flashes of things. Being carried to the car. Derek's voice telling with him to hold on, that everything will be okay. The emergency room. Doctors and nurses swarming around him. Not much for a while after that, though. He sleeps and he dreams. Well, they're more like nightmares. Turns out adderall and narcotics aren't a good combo for the ol' brain chemistry. 

He wakes with a start, sweat cooling on his skin as he breathes through the fading dream-memories of death and pain and sorrow. He tries to blink open his eyes, but they burn and sting, and he ends up just squeezing them tight. Seeing is clearly overrated. Plus, he's kind of distracted by how he's realizing there's a _tube down his throat_.

Instinct makes him swallow around it repeatedly, trying to clear the intrusion, but he can't of course. He tries to grab at it, but lifting his arms turns out to be a task he doesn't exactly have the strength for yet. His heart starts to race, panic welling up, but then a hand slips into his. 

"Shh, it's okay. It's alright. I'm here. The nurse is going to give you something, just sleep, Stiles. You have to get better so I can kill you for scaring the crap out of me," says his dad, and Stiles immediately feels a stab of guilt for the raw hurt and worry straining in his dad's voice.

But his other hand rubs soothingly over Stiles' head, warm and steady as whatever drugs the nurse gives him hit his system and Stiles drifts back to sleep before he can even attempt to express how sorry he is for doing this. The only small mercy he gets is that his slumber is quiet this time.

\--

When consciousness comes back to him again, he's no longer intubated, but his throat feels like he's been gargling Jack Daniels for kicks. He coughs and he's instantly very aware of how sore he is in every inch of his body. 

A dull sort of ache starts low on the right side of his rib cage and radiates out making him stiff, pressure sitting in his joints and making them throb. It all feels a little distant, though, fuzzy around the edges. He knows that must be the painkillers they've got him doped up on.

It's difficult to concentrate, and he feels like... like there's something more he should be doing. There's a crucial bit of information he's missing.

A cool hand brushes his brow, and this time, Stiles manages to open his eyes, squinting against the light slanting in from the window and staring up into Melissa McCall's worried face. 

"Hey there, kiddo. You gave us quite the scare, you know that?" she asks softly, a false lightness in her tone. It does nothing to hide her concern. 

"Are you my nurse?" he croaks, trying to wriggle into a more comfortable position. It's difficult when he feels like he's one giant bruise right now and his 'wriggling' consists more of lifting his head and then feeling exhausted with a weird sort of immediateness. 

He realizes in short order that there are wires and tubes still attached to his chest and arms. He doesn't even want to think about the weird fullness in his friggin' dick right now that probably means he also has a catheter.

Melissa huffs. "No, off-duty currently, but your dad's just down the hall. Bathroom break, I think. He's gonna be put out you waited until he left to wake up."

She's teasing, Stiles knows that, but he just shrugs, or attempts to anyway. "I'm sure he's used to me disappointing him by now."

She frowns but looks as if she's not sure how to say what she wants to say, instead she reaches to adjust his blankets and his pillows. She grabs the remote for his bed and sits him up just a little, too. 

After a moment, she finally stops mother-henning and looks him right in the eyes. "You know you need to tell him, right? The truth? I promised Scott I'd give you the chance, but this has gone far enough, Stiles. He found your totaled car abandoned on a bridge. He didn't know if you were dead or alive for hours, if you were going to survive for several more after that while he waited for you to get out of surgery. And let me tell you, Derek Hale's explanation that he found you delirious and wandering in the woods is not satisfying anyone. Your dad's this close to arresting him."

 _Derek_.

The reminder snaps through him, and it's a relief and scary all at once. 

"Is he -- is he okay? Is everyone--" stutters Stiles, rushing to get the questions out before his dad gets back.

"Shh, shh, everyone's fine, honey. You know I don't know all the details, I never do, but as far as I can tell everyone is good," she assures him, gently running her hands over his shoulder and up and down his arm. Sighing, she adds, "I probably shouldn't have said anything. We're keeping you in ICU until we're sure your lung won't collapse again. But you kids... you take on too much."

She sounds tired and Stiles wonders if there will ever be a day when they don't make their parents' lives that much more difficult. At least he knows Scott appreciates his mom as much as she deserves. He gives her a small smile, the biggest he can actually manage right now. "Thank you."

He hears a quick intake of breath from his right and with effort, Stiles turns his head to see his dad standing in the doorway, a cup of coffee clutched in his hand. 

"Hey," he rasps.

" _Stiles._ " His dad crosses the room in three steps. He looks about twenty years older, more gray in his hair than Stiles has ever noticed before, and he knows right then he can't tell his dad yet about werewolves. Or at least he doesn't want to tell him. 

He doesn't want to put that gnawing fear in his dad's heart that won't ever go away when he realizes there are things in this world he has no power against, things he can't protect the people he loves from. Stiles knows that feeling because he lives with it every day.

He shoots Melissa a pleading expression over his dad's shoulder, frantic as he mouths, _not yet_. Oh god, he can't tell his dad yet. _Please._

She looks stricken and for half a second, Stiles thinks she's going to tell him no, but then she gives a small nod and all the air rushes out of Stiles' lungs. He sucks in a hitching breath, eyes squeezing shut. "I'm sorry, Dad."

"You're damn right, you are." His dad's voice comes out muffled, his face pressed against Stiles's hair as he hugs him as tight as Stiles can stand. He lets go when Stiles makes a pained sound, though, and Stiles has to look away because it looks like his dad has tears in his eyes.

He wipes at his own, sniffing but otherwise keeping the crush of emotions at bay. As soon as he thinks he can speak again, he says, "It wasn't Derek's fault."

His dad shoots Melissa a glare and she holds up her hands, huffing. "Don't look at me, I just told him you were worried. I'm going now. You two... talk."

She gives Stiles a hard look that he ignores, suddenly finding his IV really fascinating. He sees Melissa shake her head and give his dad a hug out of the corner of his eye, and then she's gone.

"It wasn't him," Stiles says again as soon as they're alone, because he's not letting this go until his dad does.

"Stiles..." his dad hedges, sitting on the edge of Stiles' bed. "You can't ask me to believe he had nothing to do with it. You veered into the side of a bridge, no evidence as to _why_. Your door was pulled off the hinges completely and your seatbelt was cut. You didn't just hit your head and decide to go wandering alone in the woods, kid."

Stiles winces, but hey, it could be worse. He has to assume that someone took care of the trolls they left behind, otherwise this would be a completely different conversation. Probably the hunters. At least they're good for something.

"I know it looks bad, but I promise, this wasn't Derek's fault."

"Then whose fault was it? Huh?"

Stiles groans, reaching up to rub his hand over his face. He's already too tired for this. He doesn't want to argue. "Can't you just let it go right now? It's not that simple." 

"You haven't had so much as a single moving violation, warning, not even a _parking ticket_ since you started driving," his dad says, his finger pointing at Stiles now. "So no, I don't want to let it go."

"It was just an accident, okay? It was -- I lost control. I was going too fast." Stiles feels sick saying the words, at how they'll disappoint his dad. 

Except his dad only shakes his head hard, his hand cutting across the air dismissing Stiles' confession. "It might look like a careless teenage driver losing control of his vehicle, but even if I decide to ignore the details about the door and the seatbelt, you would _never_ do something that endangered that Jeep."

 _Your mother's Jeep._ Stiles hears the implication, and he doesn't know if it's also an accusation. He fidgets, looking down at his own hands, picking at his nails. 

"All I can tell you is it's not Derek's fault," he finally says, chancing a peek at his dad's face again. "And I don't think you could believe the truth right now if I tried to tell you."

His dad's shoulders slump in defeat and he shakes his head. He looks unaccountably sad. "Stiles... is the truth that you're dating Derek Hale?"

Stiles can easily say he's never been so shocked in his entire life, and yesterday he was attacked by trolls.

Shrugging, his dad adds, "Honestly, kid, I'm not sure if I'm more offended you didn't think I would figure it out, or just disappointed."

"I'm not dating Derek," he says, the words out of his mouth like an automatic, involuntary response.

"Okay," his dad sighs. "Listen, you... you should get more sleep. We'll talk about this tomorrow."

"What? No, I can't _sleep_ right now, are you nuts?"

His dad rolls his eyes and before Stiles can think to even _try_ to stop him, he turns the call light on. 

A nurse comes bustling in and there's a short argument where Stiles tries to insist he is _not_ getting worked up and no, he _doesn't_ need anything to help him relax! But apparently, he's not very convincing. 

As he's drifting back to sleep, he at least gets the consolation of seeing his dad getting scolded for upsetting Stiles while he's still healing. _Ha! Take that, Dad!_

Of course, then he's asleep, so maybe his dad got the last laugh after all.

\--

Stiles has a certain amount of comfort with hospitals. He spent a lot of time here when his mom was sick. He never developed a phobia, never blamed the hospital or its staff for what his family went through while his mom slowly died, the pain on his father's face. It wasn't their fault. They took care of her, and in the end, they took care of him and his dad. 

Still, being the person hospitalized is a far cry from being the visitor. He has a new appreciation for his mother's patience. Stiles is crawling the wall after only seventy-two hours, and he was _unconscious_ for the first twenty-four of those and a considerable amount of the next twenty-four.

It also doesn't help that his dad's stance on the whole thing seems to be: _Derek Hale is a menace and this is all his fault._ No amount of explaining from Stiles seems to make him budge even a little. Of course, it might help if Stiles actually told him the truth.

At least people start trickling in to visit him once he's out of ICU. 

"So are you going to tell your dad?" asks Scott.

"Looks like," confirms Stiles. "I'm not sure what else I can do. I think -- well, I know he thinks I'm dating Derek or something, which is... It's insane for one thing, even if we did kiss, and don't you dare repeat that. And for another, how is it that my dad assuming I'm dating the incredibly hot older dude is somehow worse than him finding out that werewolves are real? And again, keep your little werewolf mouth shut."

"Woah." 

"Yeah." Stiles groans. This is a disaster. "I also can't tell if the idea that I might be in a relationship with Derek is what's pushing my dad toward arresting him or making him hold off."

Scott gets that constipated look, the one that means he knows something and he also knows he shouldn't tell anyone. Stiles drops his head back against his pillow and lifts his eyebrows. 

"Nothing," says Scott without hesitation. 

"I didn't ask you anything." 

"Oh," says Scott, and he almost sounds disappointed. "Well, you were going to!"

Sighing, Stiles rolls his eyes, but less at Scott and more at the situation. "Well, there's the part where I'm still unclear on exactly how we got out of there with all limbs and lives intact. I don't know what happened after I passed out. I'm stuck in this hospital bed until they're satisfied I'm not going to just drop dead or something and -- "

"And you're safe," finishes Allison. Her mouth is tight, a small frown creasing her brow, and Stiles would almost say she looks sad. "The coven dispersed, everyone is alive. Just get better, Stiles. Things are fine. Tell your dad if you have to, we'll back you up."

Her words come out with a heavy sort of finality. Allison can be weird levels of intense sometimes, and this is definitely one of those times. Stiles chews on his bottom lip, plucking at the stiff hospital sheet draped over his legs and lap. 

"Right," he says, shutting his eyes. "I just have to figure out how."

\--

After Scott and Allison leave, Stiles takes a nap. He finds it difficult to keep awake for long periods of time still. His energy depletes quickly as if his very bones are hollowing out with each passing moment. 

Other people come and go; Danny towing Jackson along, Isaac and Boyd who try to sneak him curly fries. Erica, surprisingly, comes alone, but she doesn't stay long, just a brief kiss on the cheek and a mumbled, "Thanks, Batman." It's good to see her whole and healthy-looking, at least, but he can't help but think of Derek, how he must be fully healed now, too.

Lydia is last, and he doesn't think it's a coincidence that it's when his dad goes home for a shower and a change of clothes. He'll be back, though. His dad sleeps at the hospital, and Stiles knows it's no use to try to convince him otherwise. 

The door creaks open and Stiles tries not to show any disappointment that it's Lydia sneaking in past official visiting hours and not Derek. It's not that he doesn't want to see her. Of course he does, it's Lydia, and there will always be a part of him that loves Lydia. She's just not Derek.

And there's a thought he never thought he'd have.

"Couldn't squeeze me in earlier, huh?" Stiles teases, though he sounds too tired for it to come off as anything but half-hearted.

Lydia tucks a stray piece of hair behind her ear. "You know why I couldn't come earlier."

"I'm telling him, you know," says Stiles, feeling defiant for a reason he can't put his finger on. 

"You don't have to if you don't want," she says, wiggling her fingers. "I could take care of his worry."

The very idea makes his chest feel like ice and his heart hurt as it bangs out a startled rhythm. The monitor next to his bed gives a warning beep, his pulse spiking to unacceptable levels before he makes himself take a breath, then another. It resolves without a nurse coming in to check it and he takes the opportunity to glare at Lydia. "No. Absolutely not, do you hear me? You keep your little witchy fingers out of my dad's head."

Lydia seems unconcerned. "Sure, whatever you want. You know I can only offer because it would be in service to the pack, anyway."

"Did Derek ask you to do it?" Stiles isn't sure he even wants an answer, not if it's the wrong one.

"No," says Lydia. "That was an offer for you and you only, Stiles. Just because I'm tied to the pack doesn't mean I have to do what Derek wants anyway. I just can't use my magic unless it's for the good of the pack. There's a difference."

He breathes a sigh of relief. "I know. God -- so it, it actually worked then?"

Lydia's eyes flash. "Yes, it worked. How much do you remember, anyway?"

"All of it, I think. To a point anyway. Doesn't mean I'm really sure what the fuck I'm remembering. It's a big damn mess in my head, if you want the truth," he admits, licking his lips. He needs to stop doing that, it's a total tell.

Lydia hums and comes closer, sitting on the edge of Stiles' bed with a delicate precision, her legs crossed at the ankles and her hands resting on her lap. "Well? Come on, buttercup, this question and answer sesh can't last long. Your dad'll be gone another half an hour max."

Stiles wants to grumble about a deadline, but aside from being useless, it would also waste time. He takes a deep breath. "The witches thought I was the _fidēlis_."

"Yes," says Lydia. 

She stares at him, guileless and blank, and Stiles huffs. "But I wasn't, I'm not. I don't... Why did they think that?"

She lifts an eyebrow, perfect lips pursing. "Because you _are_ bonded to the pack, just not the way they thought, given... certain behaviors."

Stiles wants to hit his head against a hard surface, it would be less painful. 

"Lydia," he snaps, "Cut the bullshit. Why am I bonded to the pack? Why couldn't they kill Derek? Why -- why did you talk about mates?"

"You are not this dense," she says in a quiet voice, pity painted on her face.

His denial sits heavy and strong in his chest, an anchor keeping him from being dragged out by the tide. He's not ready for this, not ready for what it could mean, how it might change things. 

"Even if -- that wouldn't explain them not being able to kill him. That's not how mates work." Stiles' hands are trembling and he balls them into fists at his sides. 

"Not for most bonded pairs, you're right," says Lydia. She takes a breath. "But most werewolves aren't Alphas, and the ones who are... well, there are probably even fewer who are mated to someone like you, if any of them at all."

Stiles can hear the monitor at his side give another warning beep, and then another. His heart rate cannot be good right now. He tries to breathe deep again, to calm down before he gives himself away. It's not really working.

"But I'm not," he starts. He shakes his head, and his mouth pinches with anger. "I'm not a witch or... or anything. I'm nothing better than a piece of copper wire, useless until something else provides the electricity."

"Don't be stupid," snaps Lydia, standing up. She's mad now, and the hair on his arms stands on end. "You're more than that and you know it. You're a spark, you have heart. You have the kind of will that's strong enough to help me overcome an entire coven of witches just by _wanting it_ hard enough. And that! That kickstart, that ability to conduct and amplify things, it doesn't just work on my magic or on the magic in Mountain Ash. It works on _all_ magic, even the kind inherent in a connection between a werewolf and his mate."

Stiles' tongue is thick in his mouth and his throat doesn't seem to want to work. 

Fortunately for Stiles, he doesn't have to figure out how to speak because the warning beeps on his stats have finally drawn the attention of the nursing staff. His night nurse comes bustling in and takes one look at the scene in front of him, his hands going to his hips. "Alright, champ, that's enough excitement for one night. Your illicit guest better leg it because your dad's on his way back and you know you're not supposed to have visitors past nine anyway."

"Sorry," he manages, even though if he wasn't kind of in shock right now, he would be all over the apparent police state he's living in. 

Lydia takes a breath and then leans down and kisses Stiles on his temple, lips brushing skin as she murmurs, "Get well, we need you."

She's gone before he can work up a proper sense of indignation at his much deserved convalescence being rushed by a pack of pushy preternatural pains. He's too busy aching over all of it. 

\--

He needs to talk to Derek. Hell, he just wants to _see_ Derek. Stiles realizes he hasn't gone more than a couple of days without seeing Derek in years and he has to resolutely ignore that fact just to stay sane. He's been trapped in the hospital for a week with no damn idea when he's breaking out of here. 

Every time he asks about going home, his doctor gives him some song and dance about needing to make sure he doesn't develop an infection in his lungs and blah-blah-blah. Stiles knows what's up! If he didn't have awesome insurance through his dad's job, they'd have put him out on his ass three days ago. But no, as long as his insurance will pay for him to stay, they want to keep him.

And of course, every time he mentions Derek to someone from the pack, they get this panicked look in their eyes like they're not sure what they should say. Even Lydia, the next time he sees her, avoids giving him a direct answer. He's going to pull out what little hair he has if someone doesn't tell him something soon.

It's Scott who comes through in the end, but that doesn't really surprise Stiles because the dude is his best freakin' friend for a reason, okay? Granted, he's pretty sure Scott doesn't _mean_ to let the info slip, but beggars, choosers, etc.

"Oh man, do you think the nurses would say anything if I just crawled into bed with you? I am so tired," whines Scott, eyeing Stiles' hospital bed with interest.

Stiles snorts. "Dude, I may be skinny, but you're like a one man interpretive dance routine when you sleep. There's no way I'm sharing this little bed with you."

Scott ignores him and climbs right in anyway, carefully dodging wires and curling up on his side, his nose pressed to Stiles' arm. 

Stiles huffs, but rolls his eyes. He really does feel a lot better, so it's not like it's hurting him. Plus, he's a little desperate for this sort of pack closeness right now. He leans over and rests his cheek on top of Scott's head and takes a deep breath. Scott's soft hair tickles his nose. Even with human senses, Scott's always had a distinct scent. He's warm and sweet and rich, almost like chocolate. It's comforting.

"Why are you so tired anyway?" mumbles Stiles after a moment.

Scott's voice is sleepy when he answers. "Derek's on some crazy mission to train us to death, I think. It's like as hard as your dad was on him, he's determined to take it out on us."

Stiles goes still, he doesn't even breathe. "My dad what?"

It takes a moment for Scott to respond, as if he's trying to work out what just happened, what he just _said_ , and then he jerks up, looking at Stiles. "Nothing! I didn't say anything. Oh god, Derek is going to _kill_ me. Just pretend like I never said a word."

Scott's already jumping out of the hospital bed, spinning around like he's looking for something he lost. Like his ability to keep his mouth shut. 

Stiles pushes himself up as much as he can. His hands are shaking. "What did my dad say to Derek?"

"Crap," says Scott, shoulders dropping. He gives Stiles puppy eyes, but they've been friends too long for that to work.

"What did my dad say, Scott?" he repeats, and he puts as much calm and force into it as he can manage.

Scott whines, an honest-to-god whine, and scuffs his feet against the floor before he finally says, "I don't know the details, okay? Just... I guess there's enough evidence that if your dad _wanted_ to press it, they could arrest Derek. Your dad thinks he was in the car, that -- that the accident was his fault or something. He doesn't want Derek to come around you anymore."

"Oh." 

Stiles clears his throat. He feels... something, some emotion that's escaping him right now. There's a pervading numbness, a quietly raging frustration with people and events he doesn't know how to control. 

Shifting from foot to foot, Scott shoves his hands in his pockets. He does this when he wants to look smaller and less intimidating than he really is these days, like he still hasn't quite figured out how to be a predator. "I don't think -- I mean, I'm sure once you tell your dad the truth, he'll come around and --"

"And what?" snaps Stiles. And oh. Okay, so that's what he's feeling: _pissed_. "He's going to magically be okay with me hanging out with a pack of wolves?"

Scott looks stricken, his eyes going wide. "Stiles --" 

Stiles ignores him, keeps going. "He's going to understand that I'm an Alpha werewolf's freakin' mate, of all things? One who hasn't even bothered to come see me because apparently he's too afraid of my dad arresting him. Which just makes the whole part where I have some -- some instinct driven urge to save Derek that I can't shove down enough to give a damn about keeping myself alive really perfect! And all because I'm a freak! A magical _spark_. Yes, I can see how that'll go."

Scott looks horrified, and it's only then that Stiles notices the draft in the room, the fact that he can hear the noise from the hall clearly. The door is open. He allows himself five whole seconds where he shuts his eyes, shuts out the reality he just ranted himself into.

And then his dad says, "Scott, can you excuse us? I think I need to have a conversation with my son."

"Um, sure, Sheriff. For -- for what it's worth, he's not crazy or anything, in case you were, uh, thinking that," says Scott as he shuffles across the room. "You can ask my mom, she knows." 

Groaning, Stiles slaps his hand over his face. Scott decides right that second is a good time to demonstrate what he can do, so he follows up his little speech with a flash of gold eyes and inhuman teeth. He even holds up his hand curled into sharp claws.

His dad freezes, his hand going automatically to his belt, but he's in his street clothes and therefore no gun holster. 

Scott retracts his claws and gives Stiles' dad one of his sheepish smiles. "So, yeah. Sorry, I... I didn't mean to scare you."

His dad blinks several times before he croaks, "I'll keep that in mind, thanks."

Scott leaves, the door clicking shut behind him, and Stiles drags a pillow from under his head and presses it over his face. 

"He's lying, we're all insane," he mumbles through cotton and polyester. "You should have me examined. Rare and dangerous reaction to my concussion."

He hears a chair squeak as it's dragged across the linoleum floor and then the pillow is pulled gently off his face. His dad's face is solemn, but seemingly resigned as he sighs, "Kid, you need to start talking."

"What is there to say? My best friend is a werewolf. Surprise! Werewolves are real! Also you are way too calm about this, just so you know. It's kind of freaking me out," says Stiles, trying to keep most of the hysteria he feels out of his tone. He's not sure he's all that successful. 

His dad looks over at the door again, as if he's recalling Scott's display. He swallows and then shakes his head, let it hang down like it's too much to hold it up right now. "Honestly, Stiles? It's... it's kind of a relief. There are certain things that make a _lot_ more sense, but trust me, I am very much having a 'freak out.' I'm just better at hiding it."

"Oh, well... okay, that might be fair," admits Stiles, blowing out a breath he'd been holding. 

"I consider myself a pretty damn good detective, but I... er, werewolves were not on my list of possible explanations for the past two years." His dad scrubs a hand through his hair and looks up at Stiles. His jaw flexes, and Stiles can see a cloud come over his dad's face. "How did this happen? Was it Hale? Stiles, I heard what you said to Scott just now, and I can't say I really understand every word, but I will not let him --"

" _Dad_ ," says Stiles, his stomach twisting into knots again. "Oh god, it's not his fault. None of it is, I swear."

"I just heard you say that you -- you _have_ to protect him, that you feel --" his dad breaks off, clearly uncomfortable.

 _Well, welcome to the club, Dad!_ Stiles thinks. He wants to sink into the ground and disappear forever. "Oh my god, seriously? I don't want to talk about this with you! I don't even... It's complicated, okay? And it's still not his fault! The... the mates thing," he hisses out, whispers like if he doesn't say it loudly again, maybe this whole catastrophe will go away, "it's not something either of us has any control over, and believe me, I'm the last person he'd pick. And he's not the reason any of them are werewolves. Okay, well he did give the bite to some of them, but his uncle started it with Scott to get revenge on Kate Argent."

His dad stares. Something flickers in his expression that Stiles can't identify before it's gone, and then he narrows his eyes and asks, "Are you telling me that _all_ of your friends are werewolves?"

Stiles squirms. "Um, no, not all of them, exactly. Lydia's a witch? And um, Allison's family are werewolf hunters. Well, mostly. It's --"

"Complicated," his dad sighs. "Yeah, I'm getting that. Why don't you start at the beginning."

Stiles takes a deep breath and does.

\--

While his dad seems to be taking it a lot better than Stiles had any right to expect, he still doesn't come across as very thrilled by the whole thing. And he's still firmly in the anti-Derek camp. Except Stiles knows his dad is actually incapable of being dishonest or anything but upstanding when it comes to sheriff-ing, so any potential for Derek getting arrested went out the window when Stiles finally clued him in on the big W.

Which means Derek has no freaking excuse for not coming to see him, to talk to him about all this. Stiles has a lot of questions and every day he spends stuck here and unable to go find Derek is one more day he gets just a little angrier. 

The facts are these: 

1\. Derek kissed Stiles.

2\. Stiles liked that kiss.

3\. Derek then got kidnapped by witches.

4\. Stiles almost died because... well, trolls.

5\. Apparently, he's Derek's mate.

6\. Also there's some crazy shit involving his _force of will_ and the magic of being an Alpha's mate. 

Stiles knows he has some kind of feelings for Derek, but he hasn't sorted them out yet. He's going to, he swears, he just wants to talk to Derek first. He needs to figure out exactly how much Derek wants him and how much Derek _has_ to want him. 

Most of all, he has to figure out if he can live with whatever answer he finds, if he even has a choice.

Because Stiles' life is determined to be difficult, he has to wait four more days in the hospital before he even has a chance of getting to Derek. He thinks Melissa is pulling strings with the doctor as a favor to his dad. She probably wants to make up for not telling him about the whole werewolf thing. And after Scott's slip up, the pack is even more tight lipped about whatever the hell is going on with Derek.

\--

Stiles is not pouting. He's not, he's just silently making it known that he does not appreciate being made to sit at the front of the hospital with Melissa while his dad brings the car around. He could have made it down to the parking lot just fine! He's been walking himself to the bathroom for several days now, thanks.

"Chin up, pouty. You're getting out of all this pretty easy, you know," says Melissa, giving his shoulder a squeeze.

"Oh yeah, my life is a cakewalk." He doesn't mean to be a smartass, he genuinely likes Melissa. She's... well, no one could ever be a replacement, and just the thought of phrasing it like that makes him slightly green, but she's been there for him. She's important. 

Melissa cuffs him lightly on the back of the head. "Behave."

"Hey," he whines, "I am a recent head trauma survivor!"

"Please, you big baby. You're fine. You should have been out of here days ago." She's giving him a frown, but he can see the tease of a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

"I knew it!" he says, point at her. "Conspiracy!"

Rolling her eyes, Melissa laughs. "Hey, it was your best friend who ratted me out. I did what had to be done to keep me in his good graces. Always good to have a lawman in your pocket."

It's Stiles' turn to smile now. "Oh so he's my best friend, huh? Not your son or anything. And whatever, like my dad could stay mad at you. How many times did you feed me while he was working overnights?"

Her expression goes soft and fond. She shrugs. "That's what family is for, honey."

Stiles' throat tightens and he nods but looks away.

"Your dad will come around, Stiles. You know he will." She brushes a hand through his hair.

"Yeah, I know. He's not really who I'm worried about." He's not sure why he's saying this to Melissa, but it comes out easily nonetheless.

There's a beat and then Melissa says, "You know, I once told Scott he needed to tell Allison everything he thought she already knew, everything he felt. I said it was because girls like that kind of thing, but the truth is, everyone needs to hear it and sometimes you have to be brave enough to say it first."

Stiles is saved from being required to respond intelligently by his dad pulling up. So instead he stands and pulls her into a hug. "Thanks, Melissa."

His dad's eyebrows go up, but Stiles only shrugs and lets himself be helped into the passenger seat of his dad's car. 

They're several minutes down the road when his dad pipes up, "So, I thought if you wanted, maybe this weekend we could go around to a couple of used car lots, see if we can't find you something reasonable with all the holiday sales. I know it's not... The Jeep needed too much work for repairing it to make sense, or... well, you know I would have if we could afford it."

He knows his dad is trying to be nice, trying to make a peace offering. It takes effort not to reject it. "Yeah, I know, Dad. That sounds good, thanks."

"Stiles," his dad starts, and then he hesitates as if he's not sure how to proceed. Finally, he sighs, "If you want, you can borrow the car in the morning to... visit your friends. I'll be using the patrol car anyway."

Stiles' heart thumps in his chest, and he looks over at his dad. "You know where I'm going if I borrow the car."

His dad's expression is wry and he looks heavenward for a moment, and Stiles both hates and loves when he does that because Stiles knows exactly what his dad's doing in those moments. 

But then his dad is focused on the road again, and he says, "Yes, Stiles, I know."

\--

Stiles is still a little sore, even if he doesn't like to let it show in front of his dad. Regardless, it's a great excuse for dragging his feet and going as slow as possible when he gets up the next morning long after his dad leaves for work. Part of him is sort of hoping Derek will just show up, that he's been waiting for Stiles to be home and alone.

The other part of him isn't surprised when he doesn't come. Derek is an ass, and Stiles nearly talks himself out of following Melissa's advice three times. In the end, though, he finds himself showered and dressed. He even manages matching socks and putting his shoes on the correct feet before he grabs the keys from the dining room table and heads out the front door.

He can do this.

\--

"Oh god, I can't do this," he says out loud to the empty car as he turns up the drive to the Hale house. "I'm going to throw up on him. Or punch him. Or he's going to punch _me_. Oh my god, my dad's gonna kill him. We're all gonna die. Fuckfuckfuck."

He should just turn around, he should pretend like he doesn't know anything about the mates stuff or that he forgot it. Yeah, he forgot. He had a head injury! He doesn't know anything. This is a bad idea, this is so --

Stiles' brain goes utterly, shockingly quiet as he rounds the bend and the house comes into view. He sucks in a sharp breath, then another. His hands are shaking on the wheel and he comes to a hard a stop, jolting forward against the seat belt. He can barely feel his fingers as he fumbles for the keys and shuts off the engine, only remembers he hasn't actually put the car in _park_ when he can't pull the key out of the ignition.

It's not his fault, though. He just can't believe what he's seeing. 

Sitting in front of Derek's house, looking a lot better than the last time Stiles saw it, is his Jeep.


	6. Chapter 6

Stiles stumbles out of the car and takes several steps forward on unsteady legs, eyes locked on his Jeep. 

Derek did that for him. He has no doubt in his mind. This is what Derek's been doing for the past two weeks. The symbolism isn't lost on Stiles, not even a little bit. Derek couldn't fix him so he fixed Stiles' Jeep instead.

He hears the screen door bang open and he knows without looking that Derek is standing on the porch, watching him. Stiles can't lift his head right now. He's too busy getting his hands on cool metal, fingertips brushing over the hood.

Everything looks brand new. Hell, it looks better than it did before the accident, new tires and rims, new grill, headlights, and hood. The engine's probably been rebuilt, must have been. He peers through the replaced windshield and sighs. The original interior is intact, though, with only a new seat belt dangling on the driver's side.

It's his Jeep, his -- his mom's.

Stiles is shaking. His breath wavers as he lets it out, leaning heavily against the door, forehead pressed to the cold glass. He's not sure what he's feeling. This isn't what he was expecting. This isn't anything he could prepare for, create a scenario in his head and rehearse a speech a thousand times.

Taking a steadying breath, Stiles tries to calm himself, tries to come up with something to say, anything at all. When he opens his eyes and turns around, he's not surprised to see Derek isn't on the porch. Instead, Stiles finds him directly in front of him, standing there with an expression that's about 80% his normal pissed off stoicism (which doesn't even make sense, how can a person look pissed off and stoic at the same time?) and then 20% vague concern.

It's what Stiles privately refers to as Derek's go-to Alpha Expression for Emotional Occasions.

"Shouldn't you still be at home? Resting?" asks Derek, apparently foregoing any kind of greeting or well wishes or a damn explanation in favor of being a pushy jackass.

The mystery swirl of emotions in Stiles' gut very suddenly and very severely resolves, and he realizes two things at once.

He's in love with Derek Hale, and he's absolutely furious.

"No," he snaps. "But I guess you couldn't be expected to know that since, you know, you never came to see me."

Derek's face goes slack with surprise, but only for a few seconds before it quickly flashes to frustration. "You know why I couldn't come to see you. The pack kept me updated on how you were doing."

"Oh well, that makes it all okay then," says Stiles, a hint of hysteria in his tone. His breath rasps as he tries to keep a measure of calm. "It's not like you've never used your crazy creeper skills to sneak into a hospital before or anything. Oh, wait!"

"That was different. I couldn't risk --" Derek breaks off, huffing. And then he completely switches gears. "Can we go inside? It's too cold for you to be out here. You're still healing and you'll get sick."

Stiles scowls and jabs a finger at Derek's chest. "No way, buddy. You're not distracting me. You couldn't risk what? Getting arrested? You and I both know my dad wasn't going to arrest you as soon as he knew the truth."

Derek rolls his eyes like _Stiles_ is the unreasonable pain in the ass. "I couldn't risk making things hard on you, Stiles. You almost died, and you needed time to recover. You didn't need to deal with any complications."

"Complications. _Complications_ , Derek? That's what we're calling it? Great, good to freaking know that a witch almost getting both of us killed because we're magically bonded or werewolf married or _whatever_ is a complication!" Stiles is so angry, he feels like he could punch Derek in his stupid chiseled jaw and not regret a single fucking thing.

He actually gets a growl in response. Which-- Good! Let Derek be mad. Let him feel even a little of what Stiles is feeling.

"I thought respecting your dad's wishes would make you happy," Derek says through his teeth.

Stiles sort of wants to scream. Like he needed anymore reasons to feel like a bad son. "No. You do not get to use my dad against me on this. That is not how this goes."

"Then how does it go? You tell me because clearly nothing I do is right. And I get it, you know? I've understood for a while, but I'm just -- I'm tired, Stiles, and I can't be something I'm not." Derek sounds weary and defeated, and Stiles flashes to that moment before Derek left to go track down the coven and his heart breaks all over again.

Stiles stares, motionless for who knows how long. Because really, Derek cannot be serious. "You're an idiot," says Stiles, actually astonished by the level of Derek's idiocy, by his complete inability to grasp the truth here. "You don't understand anything!"

Derek turns away, throwing up his hands. "Thanks, perfect, that's really helpful --"

"Shut up." Stiles grabs a hold of Derek's shirt and yanks, trusting that Derek will let him, will give in to the momentum of the tug.

Derek doesn't disappoint, his eyebrows shooting up and his body lurching forward, looming over Stiles. Which shouldn't be so obvious since Stiles is almost as tall as Derek, dammit, but Derek's bulk makes Stiles feel small. It's really -- wrong. And unfair. And distracting.

"Stiles, what are you --"

"I said shut up," repeats Stiles, and if he's a little breathless now, well, that's only because his lungs are still not 100%, okay? That's all.

He realizes belatedly that he's staring at Derek's mouth. He huffs and lifts his gaze, meets Derek's stupid freakin' rainbow eyes with _confidence_ , dammit. His body is less convinced of his boldness, though, because his heart is hammering and his throat and mouth have gone dry. 

"Just -- Listen to me, you stubborn, impossible, pain-in-the-ass, Alpha-tripping, amazing, kind-hearted, loyal, caring, _idiot_ ," starts Stiles, and he knows he's rambling but that seems unimportant compared to getting Derek to understand something very essential that he is repeatedly, willfully missing.

Stiles takes a shaky breath. "What I need is for you to not decide what I'm thinking and feeling for me. And trust me, I realize that I am also in desperate need of listening to my own advice. Only -- only you know, in reverse. About you. I think. Obviously, there are some details I am missing that I am really looking forward to you filling me in on, but the point is -- The _point_ is that you are being really freaking obtuse."

Derek has that little quirk to his eyebrows, that very slight wrinkle between them that usually indicates confusion of some kind. Stiles groans, looking away from Derek. God, maybe he was too harsh. Maybe he should try to give some positive reinforcement too? 

Fuck. He shakes his head and opens his mouth, feeling the word vomit about to come out. "Well, except -- except the Jeep. That was actually pretty astute, I mean, right on the money, really. Because you know, it means a lot to me, and even more that you would think to do that for me because it, uh, it was --"

He breaks off, startled because Derek's hand is now cupping the side of his face and Derek is a lot closer. Stiles can see exactly where Derek's eyes go from green to gray to the ring of amber around his irises and it's disconcerting. It's really -- it's --

Derek kisses him, eyes wide open, just a chaste press of lips before he pulls back. "It was your mother's. I remember."

"You do," breathes Stiles, and he can't figure out if he's asking a question right now or not. To be honest, he's pretty sure his brain stopped working about ten minutes ago.

A hint of a smile makes Derek's mouth curl to one side, lopsided and hopeful and so boyish it makes Stiles' stomach ache.

"Stiles, answer a question for me," says Derek, and Stiles can feel the vibration of Derek's words, the low, rough rumble of them passing from Derek's chest to his own.

"Okay," says Stiles.

"What do you want?"

"You." It's out of Stiles' mouth before he can think better of it. Which always seems to be the way of things that come out of Stiles' mouth.

Derek's grin is blinding and Stiles' eyebrows draw together in a frown. 

"Like it was some big secret," says Stiles, half tempted to stick out his tongue. "It's not my fault you mistook my natural sarcasm and acerbic wit for dislike, dude. I thought you had a super sniffer, huh? Couldn't you like, smell it on me or something?"

"You just smell like you. You smell good to me," says Derek, head tipping down as he noses at Stiles' neck like he's trying to confirm it. He takes a deep breath. "Like cinnamon and a little like apple, like warm, spicy cider."

Derek's lips are tickling Stiles' neck as he speaks, his stubble scraping skin and probably turning it red. This is not going to help the 'no really, I wasn't dating Derek' case with his dad.

"You probably say that to all the boys," says Stiles, laughing breathlessly, nervous for so many reasons.

"You know there hasn't been anyone else."

Stiles does know that, wondered at it sometimes even. Now he feels extraordinarily dense, especially pressed up against the Jeep Derek spent so much time and energy on just for Stiles. Derek's body is a wall of heat, his hands firm but careful as they hold him still.

"I'm still mad at you," says Stiles, switching topics because he can't think about what Derek is admitting to him, how he's been waiting for Stiles. His fingers curl into the fabric of Derek's henley. 

"What for?" Derek's tongue draws a warm, wet line from Stiles' collarbone to the hinge of his jaw.

Stiles shivers. "For going after those witches alone, for staying away after it was all done. For never telling me I was -- I was your --" 

"My mate," Derek finishes for him.

"Yeah," says Stiles.

"I was working up to it." Derek's barely paying attention, though. He seems more interested in making Stiles' throat a splotchy disaster area.

Stiles closes his eyes, tipping his head back even more because apparently all that stuff about his willpower is crap. He has absolutely none. 

"You kissed me and ran away!" gasps Stiles, hips jerking against Derek.

"You caught me by surprise." Derek's breath is hot and raises goosebumps, tickling Stiles with every word.

Stiles moans, can't hold it back anymore. This is all very rapidly slipping away from him.

"Fu-uck," he bites out. "Derek -- Derek, wait just... Oh god, why am I the way that I am? I mean -- ugh, don't answer that. It was a rhetorical question. For me! A rhetorical question for me because I'm asking you to stop and that's just stupid except it's not and oh dammit." 

Derek nips at his ear, but then very slowly, he pulls back. "What's the problem, Stiles?"

Stiles so doesn't care how pathetic he sounds, he totally whines, eyes squeezing shut. "Um, god, so many things? Mostly that I really am not supposed to engage in any, uh, strenuous activity. In fact, my doctor kind of told me specifically that hanky panky might kill me. She actually used to words 'hanky panky.' I'm still looking into whether or not that's grounds for a sexual harassment suit."

Silence meets his ramble and after far too long, Stiles lifts his head again. He peeks through one eye and immediately gets a load of Derek shaking with silent laughter. Stiles smacks him in the shoulder as hard as he can manage. "Oh my god, I hate you. I hate you so damn much. I can't actually think of a punishment severe enough for this but I will and then you will live to regret your cruel mockery of my pain."

"I wasn't planning on having sex with you right now anyway," says Derek, entirely too smug. Laughter still crinkles his eyes at the corners and Stiles wants to kiss him and punch him, which he's decided is probably going to be a theme with them.

Mouth falling open, Stiles makes an outraged sound and hits Derek again. This time, Derek catches his wrists and pins them to his sides, leaning in to kiss the indignation right off of Stiles' lips.

It's another slow, sweet kiss, but this one deepens. Derek's tongue sweeps into his mouth, and Stiles is caught in a rush of want and realization because this is _Derek_. This is someone for whom Stiles' feelings have been a mess almost as long as they've known each other.

If someone had told him two years ago that one day he'd be standing in Derek's driveway being kissed like he's the only thing that matters in Derek's whole life, Stiles would have laughed in their face.

And then maybe had their head examined for good measure because this? This wasn't in the cards for them, this is impossible. When Derek breaks the kiss, Stiles is starry eyed, dazed as he stares at Derek's lips, the way his tongue flicks out and licks them like he's chasing Stiles' taste.

"Will you at least come inside now? I was serious about you getting sick," says Derek, unfairly calm.

Has Stiles mentioned lately that he hates werewolves?

He gives himself a shake and says, "Yeah, okay. You can feed me breakfast and explain... everything, and I will decide how much groveling I'm gonna need before I let you in my pants."

Derek snorts but steps back and tangles his fingers with Stiles', pulling him toward the house.

\--

Stiles sits at the kitchen island while he watches Derek fry bacon. He feels like he can actually think again, which is good. He knew it would be a lot, seeing Derek after everything, but the Jeep added an extra level that made it difficult to really process. It made most of the questions he wanted to ask fly out of his head. Now, sitting here with Derek, they're back, rolling around in his head. 

Derek lifts the bacon from the pan and onto a paper towel lined plate before he turns to open the carton of eggs. He doesn't need to ask Stiles how he wants them cooked. He knows from countless pack breakfasts. For some reason, that hits Stiles hard.

"How long have you known?" he asks, managing to surprise even himself.

Derek's shoulders hunch for a moment before he rolls them, visibly forcing himself to relax. "A while," he says. "Can't really pinpoint an exact moment for you. There was something about you from the beginning, but I ignored it for a long time, until I couldn't ignore it anymore."

Stiles nods, absorbing that information. "And after that, why not say something?"

"Just because I wanted you forever didn't mean you would want me at all. And yes, that's what being mates means: forever, always. You were young, and I didn't want to put that on you. You're still young and you're going away to college soon."

"In like nine months," says Stiles, feeling oddly defensive.

"Did you miss the forever part?" asks Derek, looking over his shoulder, mouth pursed in his pissy little glare.

Stiles rolls his eyes. "I got that. I'm just pointing out that I wasn't planning on leaving tomorrow or anything. We have time to figure out how to make... _forever_ work."

Derek turns all the way around, spatula in hand, face impossibly hopeful. Sometimes it hits Stiles like a hammer over his head, how much Derek's life has consistently turned to shit, how little has ever gone right for him. Stiles knows that feeling, knows how precious and rare hope can be.

"What are you saying?" asks Derek.

Stiles sighs. "I'm saying what I already said, Derek. I want you. You are -- god, why is this so hard to talk about? We're mates. Our... bond kept you alive, helped save our whole pack. So yeah, I want you. I just haven't had as much time as you to figure out what it all means."

It's mostly the truth. Stiles may have realized he loved Derek, but up until very recently he thought, or -- or he pretended, anyway, that it was the same way he loves everyone in their pack, the way he's loved Scott since they were kids. But he's never felt for Scott the way he did when the witches took Derek, that gut-wrenching panic that landed like a sucker punch, winding him.

"Okay," says Derek, turning back to the stove where Stiles' eggs are starting to burn.

Stiles shoves down his annoyance at Derek's response. He's not sure what Derek could have even said to that anyway. This is just all a lot harder than it has any right to be, and fuck it, really. 

Might as well go for broke.

"Do either of us have a real choice in this?" he hears himself asking. "Or is it set in stone? Is it -- Does it matter if we love each other?"

Oh god, Stiles is going to throw up.

For his part, Derek doesn't respond right away. He flips the stove top off and puts Stiles' eggs on a plate before he wipes his hands and faces Stiles again, dropping the plate in front of him.

Derek doesn't look overly angry, but then sometimes it's hard to tell for sure. He certainly doesn't sound happy when he answers. "We have a choice, to some extent. It's more complicated for me. There's -- I'm never going to want someone else the way I want you, but you're human, so it doesn't affect you like that. You... you could be satisfied with someone else, happy even. And as far as love, no. It doesn't matter if we love each other."

Stiles' heart lands like a cannonball in his stomach. That isn't exactly what Stiles wanted to hear. Then again, it's almost a relief. It lets him know for sure that this is a choice, even if it is one heavily biased by biology or magic or whatever. They're still free agents at the end of the day and the way Stiles feels for Derek, that means something.

Or it might not. Because there's still the part where Derek has to want him, if not love him. 

He looks down at his plate and picks up a fork, poking at it like it might actually give him the answers he wants. No such luck, though, seeing as it's an overdone egg and not the inside of Derek's head. Not that Stiles would poke around in Derek's head or anything. Without permission. Fuck, what if that's a real option with all this mates business? 

Seriously, Stiles has to wonder how this is his life. 

Lifting his gaze, he finds Derek staring at him, which... no shock there. He sighs. "So is that it? That's all you have to say? No clarification?"

"What else is there to say, Stiles? You want to know if I'm really your only option. The answer is no. Did the part where I kept this to myself for years go over your head? Did you forget? I don't have any interest in trapping you into this." Derek crosses his arms and has the gall to look like Stiles is the asshole here.

Stiles' fork clatters onto the plate as he drops it. "That is not what I was asking," he says, pushing away from the counter and standing. "That is actually the opposite of what I'm asking."

Snatching up his plate, he walks over to the sink and promptly dumps the burnt food down the drain, turning on the water and flipping on the garbage disposal until the hum rings clear. He turns it off and spins around, glaring at Derek.

Derek stares back, being unhelpful and silent, as per usual. Stiles wonders how it's possible to find someone so appealing and crazy-making at the same time. Man, Derek is doing so much freaking groveling for making Stiles do all the heavy lifting here.

"I'm trying to understand how this works," says Stiles after a moment, "I'm trying to decide if I can live with not being sure if _you_ have a real choice. So thanks but your concern over my consent isn't really needed. Not the issue. I consent. Wholeheartedly. I -- ugh, I love you, dumbass."

Derek's eyes widen.

"You look confused," says Stiles, because suddenly he's nervous and why isn't Derek _saying_ anything? Did Stiles just completely misread the situation? Oh god. "Did you not understand? Should I try repeating it in Spanish? Te amo, idiota --"

"Stiles."

"-- I could try Greek, too. My mom's grandma was Greek, you know. S'agapo, re vlaka. Or was it s'agapao? Yeah. S'agapao, re vlaka!"

" _Stiles_ ," growls Derek, stepping toward him.

Stiles' mouth snaps shut. 

Derek's silent for a beat. He looks uncomfortable in his own skin, like he has no idea how to be a real boy at all, which Stiles kind of already knew. 

And then he says, "Je t'aime." It sounds like this: _jay tim._

"Is that... was that supposed to be _French_? That was not one of the three language options on the table. That wasn't even _good_ French. You know, Lydia speaks French. It's actually pretty hot, but that --"

Stiles is cut off by Derek's lips being on his. All in all, it turns out way hotter than Lydia's French ramblings have ever been, even if there is no hanky panky in Stiles' immediate future.

He has a hard life.

Except for the part where Derek loves him. That part is pretty okay.

\--

"So there were trolls," says Stiles' dad as they eat dinner. Stiles made lasagna, and by made, he means he picked up a frozen one from the grocery store.

It's always a good time for breaking the news that he's maybe, a little bit, definitely involved with Derek now, as opposed to how it was all theoretical before yesterday. 

Stiles nods. "Right, and then witches, we covered this."

"And now he's your... mate?" He looks like he's struggling to accept something, whether it's the concept in general or the terminology, Stiles isn't sure. To be fair, he sort of struggled with both himself. 

Being honest with his dad is turning out to be an odd situation. It's nice because he always hated lying about such a huge part of his life, but then it's also supplying a lot in the way of awkward conversations.

"Well, he was always that, I guess. It's a thing. Anyway, the point is, um, I'm dating Derek, which I guess you already thought. That explains a lot about why you disliked him so much, but that wasn't really fair because we weren't dating then. We are dating _now_." Stiles takes a breath, his face scrunching up as he looks hopefully at his dad.

His dad sighs. "It sounds more serious than _dating_ , Stiles. Are you sure --"

"Dad," groans Stiles, dragging the word out. Whining probably doesn't help his case, but Stiles figures he's entitled at least a little bit. His life is full of werewolves. "I'm sure. There's love and bad French and the whole nine yards. You saw the Jeep."

Stiles' dad stares at him. 

Stiles stares back for a while, but then his brain wanders. He thinks about how it really bugs him that there's no official origin story for the phrase, 'the whole nine yards.' Like, how did they completely manage to lose the thread of that colloquialism? It's not even that old comparatively in the aggregate of colloquialisms that Stiles knows and has inevitably researched because that is what he does.

He realizes he's zoned out when his dad clears his throat. Stiles startles and blinks rapidly. "Um."

"Right, so don't start failing your classes because you're mooning over him. You're still going to college, and he comes over for family dinner once a week," says his dad, shaking his head as he pushes away from the table and stands. "I have to go now. I'm going to be late for work."

Jumping up, Stiles hugs him tight, grinning ear to ear when he steps back. "Okay, yes, that is reasonable and fair. You are wise and gracious, oh amazing father of mine. I'm not even going to make fun of you for using the phrase, 'mooning over.' That is how much I love you right now."

"Well, I love you, too, kid, but don't you think you're laying it on a little thick?" His dad's got a hint of a smile so Stiles knows he's golden.

"Nah, it's all true, so I'm good. I'm so good, I'm great."

Sighing, his dad pats him on the shoulder. "Yeah, you are. I'll see you tomorrow, Stiles."

"Bye!" Stiles calls after him, watching from the screen door as his dad makes his way to the driveway.

Stiles turns his attention to cleaning up and doesn't even care that he has the biggest smile in the world on his face right now.

\--

Telling the pack is considerably easier than telling his dad. For one thing, they pretty much already know. For another, Stiles is making Derek do all the hard work because Derek owes him. He kicks back to enjoy a burger and watch Derek glare his way through announcing that Stiles is the love of his life and made of sunshine and rainbows and the whole pack needs to show him the respect he's due as the mate of an Alpha.

Okay, so that's maybe wishful thinking. 

Really, it's more like Derek gathers everyone in the living room, opens his mouth to talk, and Erica says, "So, are you two banging yet, or what?"

Stiles laughs so hard, he accidentally inhales a piece of lettuce and sputters for a moment while he coughs and then laughs some more. 

Jackson and Scott both groan, and Jackson says, "Oh my god, I do not need that kind of information, Reyes!"

"That's none of your business," says Derek to Erica, and Stiles thinks he means to be more menacing, but it just comes out despairing.

"Is that what this whole meeting was for? To announce that you two are a thing? I don't think anyone missed that memo. You rebuilt his Jeep like your name is Dean Winchester and it was the only way you knew how to deal with your pain," says Isaac.

Boyd punches Isaac in the shoulder. "Oh man, that show was so good the second season. Jo Harvelle is hot."

" _Was_ hot, she died," says Lydia in a crisp voice. "I like Castiel."

"Oh god, don't say that. How did I not know that? We're going to have to _break up_ ," moans Erica, clutching her chest. 

Lydia rolls her eyes.

Derek looks over at him and Stiles shrugs. "Hey, they're your betas. I didn't pick them."

"You picked me," says Scott, smiling big. Allison laughs and leans her head on his shoulder.

Stiles snorts, but he grins back. "That so doesn't count. I was twelve. I made lots of bad decisions then, like seeing Spider-Man 3 and trying to grow my hair out like Joe Jonas."

"Is that what you were trying to do?" asks Lydia, like the mystery of why Stiles looked like that in junior high has been plaguing her for years.

Stiles scoffs. "Like you even noticed."

"I did, but then I also noticed Nathan Reed's perfect jump shot and never got around to asking if you had a phobia of scissors or if it was some kind of social experiment." Lydia gives him a smug smile.

"This conversation has gotten away from me," laments Derek, dropping down next to Stiles. 

It distracts Stiles from replying to Lydia. He can't help but laugh. He leans close and whispers, "Chin up, big guy. Your future looks bright. I'm in it."

Derek leans the rest of the way in and kisses him. 

Jackson shouts, "Ugh! This is cruel and unusual. Why do we have to be subjected to this? Just... get a room, preferably one far enough away that I can't hear what's happening in it."

Stiles' skin flushes hot and he hides his face in Derek's shoulder. Erica laughs because she has no soul, but Stiles can't be too mad. Derek makes all the werewolves run laps while Stiles, Allison, and Lydia play Call of Duty. Allison kicks both their asses, and Stiles doesn't even care.

\--

Stiles has to go back to school next week. It's the beginning of the spring semester and the home stretch of his senior year. He's looking forward to it. He's also really looking forward to being taken off any physical restrictions.

Because lacrosse. 

That's his story and he's sticking to it if anyone (his _dad_ ) asks why he's so excited about his doctor's appointment today.

"So," says Stiles. His feet dangle off the exam table, and he swings them back and forth because sitting up on these things always makes me feel like a little kid.

His doctor tilts her head. "Yes, Mr. Stilinski?"

"Um, right, well... I was kind of hoping... because the lacrosse season is starting and tryouts are next week, and I feel a lot better and my scars look completely healed. So, that means I'm not on any restrictions anymore, right?" Stiles gives her his best innocent look.

She lifts an eyebrow. "You had surgery four weeks ago." 

He huffs. "I'm aware. I was present."

"And you want to play a high contact sport?"

"I was thinking about it!" 

"Well, think again."

Stiles tries really hard not to pout. His success is arguable.

Dr. Welch continues Stiles' examination, talking with him about his recovery, asking him questions. She nods at all his answers, apparently satisfied. "You seem to be doing well, a little ahead of schedule even."

Stiles opens his mouth.

"And no, that does not mean I will sign your release form to play lacrosse."

Stiles closes his mouth. 

Dr. Welch looks down at the tablet in her hand. "Your dad mentioned you had a new boyfriend," she says, nonchalant in a way that makes Stiles squirm like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar ( _if only_ , he thinks). 

"My dad is a rat," mutters Stiles. "And I've been good. No hanky panky! I do not need anymore embarrassing lectures, thank you."

She looks up from tapping something out on his chart, looking very nonplussed. "While I can't release you for lacrosse, Mr. Stilinski, so long as your sex life doesn't involve being tackled to the ground repeatedly, I feel confident you'll be just fine."

"Um." Is he hearing that correctly? Oh god, please let him understand what she means. Let it be what he thinks.

She sighs. "Yes, I am telling you it is safe to have sex with your boyfriend. Now go away before I change my mind."

Stiles feels his face heat but he's too busy being grateful to care. He's out the door with a scoot in his step, already texting Derek by the time he hits the lobby.

**MY BODY IS READY.**

He pauses, wonders if he should clarify. Better safe than sorry. He types another message.

**THAT MEANS HOT SEX IS IN YOUR IMMEDIATE FUTURE, FYI.**

**AFTER I HAVE LUNCH WITH MY DAD.**

**THAT IS PROBABLY A WEIRD THING TO SAY. OH WELL. SEE YOU SOON.**

\--

Stiles does not speed when he drives out to Derek's. He wants to, but he really doesn't. Having a near fatal wreck will do that to a person.

When he pulls up, the Corvette and the Camaro are out front. He narrows his eyes. Boyd and/or Isaac will not be cockblocking him today. He has waited too long. He has waited since birth, okay? He is so done with this virginity thing.

And yes, he gets that virginity is a heteronormative social construct and that he won't be a different person upon receiving an orgasm from another human being. He is down. He understands. It is a tool of the man to assign unnecessary value and pressure to something that should be personal. All the same, he'd really like to count himself among those brave and daring souls who have, in the words of the poets, gotten their freak on.

He's up the steps to the porch in a flash, pushing through the front door like he owns the place because hey, sex! He finds Isaac and Boyd watching TV in the living room.

"Where's Derek?" he asks.

"Out for a run. He left his phone here, said to howl if there was an emergency. We weren't sure you texting for a booty call qualified," says Isaac, turning to give him a horrible smirk.

"By the way, you were right. It is weird to talk about having lunch with your dad two seconds after talking about sex," adds Boyd, because Boyd never did like him, Stiles is sure of it.

"Hot sex, it was _hot_ sex, Boyd. Don't forget," says Isaac.

Stiles hates them both. "Well, that was sufficiently embarrassing. Great, I'll just... go look for my dignity upstairs."

He turns to leave and Boyd calls after him, "You're probably not going to find it in Derek's bedroom."

"I hate you!" yells Stiles, cheeks burning as he takes the steps two at a time. 

Stiles wanders down the hall to Derek's room, stripping off his coat as he goes. He tosses it on the dresser and toes off his shoes, climbing right onto Derek's bed. He's been up here once before. It was last weekend and it ended in a lot of cuddling and almost no groping. 

That is totally not happening this time. Well, okay, the cuddling can happen, but there will be lots of groping. Lots and lots, and there will be other miscellaneous sexy time touching, and Stiles Stilinski will have an orgasm! With someone else present! Who knows that it's happening! 

What? 

Nothing, nevermind. 

Stiles stretches out on the bed, dragging one of Derek's pillows under his head and pressing his nose to the fabric. It smells like Derek, and while Stiles isn't at werewolf level or anything, it's still comforting, still viscerally satisfying. 

He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes and reveling in the fact that he's allowed to do this. 

\--

Stiles wakes when he hears an engine start. The sun is lower, streaming in through the west-facing windows and casting Derek's room in long shadows and golden light. He sits up and blinks several times before he processes that he must have fallen asleep waiting for Derek. 

"Hey."

Stiles turns and sees Derek standing in the doorway. "Hey."

"You should have had them call for me," says Derek, coming the rest of the way into the room and sitting on the edge of the bed. "They said you've been here all afternoon."

"You like your runs," says Stiles, lifting one shoulder. He offers a small smile. "Plus, I guess I needed a nap. Did Boyd and Isaac leave?"

Derek nods, reaching out to push his fingers through Stiles' hair. Stiles is sure it's a mess, flattened and sticking out in weird directions. He pushes into Derek's touch, though.

"Did you, uh, see your phone?" he asks, his grin going sheepish. 

"My phone?" Derek's poker face is so good, Stiles can't tell if he's bluffing right now or if he really didn't see it.

Stiles groans. "Yeah, your phone! You know, the device with which you might receive the texts that I sent you detailing some very important, pertinent information?"

"Oh that, yeah, I think I remember that, now that you mention it," says Derek in his best deadpan, but Stiles can see the start of a grin on Derek's face.

Launching himself at Derek, Stiles gets his arms around his neck and drags him down onto the bed sideways. Derek's arms come around him automatically, pulling Stiles close and keeping him from taking the weight of their fall. Stiles laughs and presses a kiss to Derek's cheek, and then his mouth, which Derek responds to easily.

Kissing Derek is always a bit of a revelation. Stiles never feels unsure of himself with Derek. He doesn't think that's the mates thing, either, although that probably helps. It's the part where he's known Derek for two years, the part where they're friends.

It's the part where he trusts Derek, and best of all, now he knows Derek trusts him, too. 

Derek's stubble scrapes against his chin and cheeks, his lips plush and firm against Stiles'. Stiles is no expert, but he's of the opinion that Derek's mouth is the perfect kind of mouth for kissing. His tongue is also pretty great.

Stiles moans when Derek's hand slides down his back and over his ass, taking a handful and hitching Stiles closer. Derek pushes a thigh between Stiles' legs, tangling them together and Stiles can feel his own heart thumping in his chest. 

"Derek," he sighs, letting his head fall back so Derek can nose at his throat. He clutches at Derek's shoulders, bunching up the thin fabric of Derek's shirt. 

"Is this what you want?" Derek draws Stiles' ear between his teeth, teasing with soft nips on the tender flesh."You want me?"

"I'd prefer less clothes in the way, but generally yes. That is the idea." Stiles smiles, curling his leg up around Derek's side, trying to get leverage to roll their hips together.

Derek hums, lips meandering across Stiles' jaw. "You've never done this before."

"Um yeah, something to mark in the column in favor of doing this, if you know what I mean." He's trying hard not to whine. He was hoping for this to be less than horrifying and embarrassing. More along the lines of a little awkward but ultimately sexy and awesome.

"It's more than a mark in a column, Stiles," says Derek. He pulls back from kissing Stiles all over, and that is damn tragedy in Stiles' book.

Stiles makes himself focus on Derek's face, looking into his eyes which are clear and so, so green right now. He blurts, "Oh god, you're going to be earnest and romantic, aren't you?"

Derek scowls. "So? You deserve it."

His face goes hot, and honest laughter bursts out of Stiles, his head tipping back as his mouth goes wide. "Oh my god, oh my god!"

"It's not funny!"

"But it is, it so is," wheezes Stiles, slapping Derek's shoulder. "You're an actual romance novel hero! You could be on the cover of one of those... those dirty books for soccer moms!"

Derek grabs a handful of Stiles' hair and tugs. 

Stiles gasps and shoves at Derek's shoulder until he rolls, dragging Stiles on top. Derek's pouting. "I'm not like that."

"Well, that's good, because I'm not one of the heroines in those books either, in case you forgot. I'm an eighteen year old who's never had his dick touched by anyone but himself. So while I appreciate the romance, what I'd really like is to get to the fucking." Leaning down, Stiles kisses him hard. 

Sometimes direct is the best approach with Derek. It seems to work out for him, too, because Derek responds with a growl and rolls them again, pinning Stiles to the mattress with his weight and mouth. After several minutes where Derek makes a decent effort at sucking Stiles' tongue out his mouth, he sits up and yanks his shirt off. 

"Oh holy god," says Stiles, eyes gone wide. He scrambles to push himself up and get his own shirt off. Derek helps.

When Stiles falls back on the mattress, Derek follows with his tongue, tracing the line of Stiles' collarbone and then sliding down his chest until his lips fasten over Stiles' nipple, teeth scraping the puckered tip. Stiles arches up, lips parted with what can only be described as a whine. Stiles may die of shame if Derek's mouth doesn't get him first. 

His cock is throbbing in his pants and he buries his fingers in Derek's hair, panting as Derek shifts to his other nipple. Stiles can't say that he's ever really given his own nipples a lot of attention when having special alone time, but he clearly overlooked a gold mine of potential. 

And then Derek's fingers find Stiles' surgical scar, the pink and red line that's mostly healed now but stands out against his pale skin. It'll fade like other scars have until it's nothing but a silvery stripe of raised skin, but right now it's stark and obvious. 

Derek touches it like it's a sacred thing, fingertips hovering and brushing with delicate unease. He curls down and presses soft kisses into Stiles' skin, reverent in a way that makes Stiles shake.

"Hey, hey," says Stiles, pulling on Derek's hair to get his attention, needing to cut off the ache building in his chest. Derek looks up. "I think you should take off your pants."

Derek's thumb is still tracing the outline of the scar, but he smiles at Stiles. His amusement softens all of his features in the most striking way. "Oh yeah?"

Stiles' heart flutters but he manages a nod, breath catching for a moment at how sweet Derek looks like that. He licks his lips and says, "Yeah, yeah, mine too. Let's just get naked. Let's do that."

"Okay," says Derek. He lifts up and they spend several frustrating seconds attempting to struggle out of their remaining clothes while not actually leaving the bed.

When they're finally naked, Derek's gaze drags up Stiles' body like a physical thing, raising goosebumps and making Stiles squirm. He reaches out and pulls Derek down, spreading his legs for Derek to slot between them even though it makes him blush. 

Derek kisses him then, immediately bypassing any teasing and going straight for a deep, suggestive kiss. Which is fine by Stiles because Derek is naked and he's naked and Derek's cock is pressing against his and it's really freakin' great. 

Derek's hands bracket his face, holding him. It doesn't feel like a restraint, it feels reassuring, safe. Stiles sighs into it as he wraps his arms around Derek's shoulders, and he tries to just enjoy it for a while, to enjoy that he gets to have Derek like this. 

Even Derek's patience runs thin after a few minutes, though, and Stiles feels the subtle rock of his hips against him, the rub of their cocks pressed together between their stomachs. He moans into Derek's mouth, and one of Derek's hands skims down Stiles' side until it reaches his knee and pulls it up, guides it around Derek's hip. He thrusts against Stiles again and it sends a pleasant shock through Stiles' body. 

"Stiles," says Derek, lips dragging against Stiles' neck, over his collarbone and throat. "You smell so good." 

Shivering, Stiles clutches at Derek, dizzy with his arousal. "Yeah? Well, you -- you feel good. You feel so good, Derek, I want you to f-fuck me." He stutters only a little over the word, pulling confidence from the way Derek's hands tighten on him momentarily, the moan Derek lets escape right next to Stiles' ear.

Derek seems to take a moment, taking deep, calming breaths, but eventually he nods and moves away, rummaging in the nightstand. When he comes back, he sits back on his knees and shifts Stiles' legs until they're spread wide and draped over Derek's thighs. Stiles bites his lip and tries not to squirm too much at the feeling of being exposed.

He wants to be exposed in front of Derek. He wants this. He wants Derek. 

Slicking his fingers, Derek reaches out and slides two fingers over the length of Stiles' cock, from the tip to the base, and Stiles almost comes from that, from the shock of it. 

Stiles feels dazed from the simple bit of contact, and then Derek's wraps his whole hand around Stiles' cock. "Oh god!"

Stiles' hips jacknife off the bed of their own volition, and Derek smirks, his other hand curling around Stiles' side and easing him back down. He presses firmly, holding Stiles in place while he starts jacking him off in steady strokes. 

It's not like Stiles is a stranger to a hand on his cock, but this is different, this is so different. He wasn't prepared for how different this would be. Derek's hand is smooth, no calluses because of his freaky werewolf healing, and he feels a few degrees too warm. It's perfect, slick with lube and not quite tight enough, which Stiles would have assumed would be a bad thing, but it's... it's just good. 

It's winding him up without pushing him over. Stiles spine bows, head tipped back and throat stretched and vulnerable as he swallows compulsively, breathing hard. "Derek, Derek, oh my god, that-- don't stop, no no no, don't --"

Derek's grip loosens and his hand travels south, cupping Stiles' balls. Stiles is torn by how good it is and how much he wants Derek's hand back on his dick. 

"Oh fuck, okay, okay, that's... _yeah_ ," breathes out Stiles. Derek's hand is going even lower, slick fingers pressing at the stretch of skin behind his balls and then finally gliding over Stiles' hole. 

"I like you like this," says Derek. His fingertips rub circles against Stiles' rim, a steady rhythm that's letting Stiles adjust, letting him coax himself into relaxing.

Stiles wipes sweat off his face with a clumsy hand, blinking rapidly. "Like -- like what?"

"Like this, talking to me, telling me what you like," says Derek. 

"I always talk to you." Stiles shoves himself up on his elbows. He means to look at Derek, but he gets distracted by looking down at himself. His cock is hard and flushed at the tip, leaking precome against his stomach, and his skin is slick with sweat, legs spread wide around Derek. It's the filthiest thing he's ever seen in real life. 

Derek chuckles, sounding warm and pleased and relaxed in a way that belies his own hard cock, jutting up between his legs and so close to Stiles. Stiles licks his lips and finally makes himself meet Derek's eyes. 

Derek looks so fucking _happy_. It steals Stiles' breath for a moment. "Yeah, but I don't know, I like that you still do, I guess."

"Are you trying to tell me --" Stiles breaks off, feeling laughter bubbling up from inside him. "Are you trying to say that you're relieved I'm not speechless in the face of your mad skills?"

Derek's face darkens in a very appealing way. "I'm saying that I like you _mouthy_ , Stiles."

Stiles opens his mouth to respond, but Derek says, "Now bear down," and without further warning, he smoothly presses one finger inside of Stiles. 

Stiles gasps, skin tingling as he clutches at the bedding and falls back, doing as instructed. He's done this to himself a few times, but again, it's just not quite the same. The angle is better for one, easier to adjust to as Derek starts a slow rhythm, sinking his finger into Stiles again and again. 

He drifts with it for a while, the stretch and strange fullness that stings but feels good, and soon enough Derek's pushing in a second finger. He starts purposefully teasing against Stiles' prostate and Stiles loses track of the sounds spilling from his own mouth, the words tumbling out that are everything from, "Oh god, oh god, oh god," to, "Please, yeah, yeah, right there. Don't -- yeah, just keep... keep... Oh fuck, _Derek_."

There's no point in being embarrassed anymore. He's sure he looks ridiculous, sounds even worse. He doesn't care. He doesn't give a damn because it feels so good, and it's Derek doing it to him. He doesn't know how he got so lucky, but he knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth, knows better than to question anything good he's lucky enough to get. He just knows to hold on and never let go.

When Derek's other hand wraps around his cock again, Stiles knows he's not going to be impressing anyone with his stamina. He is going to come and he's going to come hard. Derek seems particularly interested in that outcome because he takes the opportunity to push a third finger inside of Stiles, angling right for his prostate while he fists Stiles and jerks him fast. 

"Oh you asshole," gasps Stiles, his whole body tensing up, toes splaying as he comes over Derek's fist with a ragged moan. He streaks his stomach, all the way up to his chest, and as soon as the last of his orgasm rolls through him, Derek bends low and licks him clean.

"Oh my god," he says. He feels weirdly small suddenly, wide open and defenseless. He wants Derek on him, over him. He wants to feel safe. He reaches out, grabbing at Derek wherever he can reach, pulling at him. "Just -- just fuck me, please, I want -- I want you inside of me."

"Okay, it's okay," says Derek, pulling his fingers free, and lining himself up. Stiles barely has time to register the fact that Derek's about to be inside of him before he _is_ , before he's filling Stiles up with one hard stroke and coming down to catch Stiles' mouth in a messy, hungry kiss. 

Stiles gives over to it, lets himself float on the fuzzy edge of his last orgasm and the overwhelming intimacy of having Derek in him. The pain is hazy, distant and removed, only serving to highlight the good, the sparks of pleasure every time Derek glances his prostate like misfiring wires shocking him, the rub of Derek's sweat slicked stomach against Stiles' oversensitive cock, the feel of Derek's almost-beard rough against his face, his mouth marking up Stiles' neck. It's all swirling together, leaving him edging on the far side of his last orgasm until he feels like he might tumble into another. 

It's too much, and he can only wrap himself around Derek and let it happen, wants it to happen. Stiles wants anything he can have from Derek. 

Derek is panting in his ear, hot breath tickling his skin. Stiles' scalp prickles with sweat and he knows his hair must be plastered down. Nothing matters but Derek's hips thrusting, his cock working deep. Stiles crests again, an unexpected rush that has him crying out, his blood pounding in his ears and fingernails digging into Derek's skin. 

Derek comes not long after, human teeth digging into Stiles' shoulder briefly before he kisses away the hurt with murmured adoration and apology. Stiles doesn't care. He's boneless and so utterly _gone_ he might not be back until next week. He'd laugh at his own stupid joke, but he doesn't even have the energy for that.

Thankfully, Derek doesn't make Stiles hold his weight. He eases himself out and rolls away, shifting around until he's on his side next to Stiles. He touches Stiles all over, petting him, kissing his shoulder until Stiles drifts asleep, utterly exhausted.

\--

It's late evening when Stiles wakes up again. At least that's what he's guessing because the room is dark and the sun is long gone, the sky bright with a three quarter moon. Derek's not in bed, but it doesn't bother Stiles. He can see the hall light on, and there's noise drifting up from the living room. It sounds like the TV.

Stiles gets up slowly, taking stock of the various new aches in his body, none altogether unpleasant, just... different. His ribs are a little sore. It's nothing out of the ordinary and he's breathing fine, so he guesses Dr. Welch knew what she was talking about. 

After he goes to the bathroom (because holy crap does he need to pee), Stiles grabs his jeans and tugs them on, foregoing his underwear. He gets his cellphone out of his jacket and heads downstairs to find Derek.

He's halfway down the steps when he freezes, eyes locked on his phone's screen. On it is a text from Scott.

Derek must smell his shift in mood or hear his heartbeat pick up because suddenly he appears at the foot of the steps. "What's wrong?"

Stiles rereads the text. **I'M IN THE TRUNK OF A CAR. THIS IS YOUR FAULT STILES!!!**

He can't help it, he laughs. He feels like someone should be speaking from overhead going, _Stiles Stilinski, this is your life!_ He shakes his head at Derek and sighs. 

"Um, I think Scott's been kidnapped by faeries?"

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Sometimes, I babble on Tumblr about what I'm writing, so if that's something that interests you, you can find me here: http://affectingly.tumblr.com/
> 
> This was supposed to be a story about Derek rebuilding Stiles' Jeep. And instead of my brain supplying a simple way for Stiles' Jeep to get totaled, it provided this. SO, I'm super pleased if you got to the end and liked it! You're a rockstar.
> 
> Thanks to the people on tumblr for being awesome while I was writing this and to Sabrina, who is not a teenage witch but who does like ridiculous things as much as me. If it wasn't for her, I probably wouldn't have bothered writing this fic, but then she would have killed me and that would have been sad.
> 
> Also, thanks to Clio for beta reading the final chapter, and to Helen for hooking me up with the Greek translations. The Spanish and French are from my own limited knowledge of the languages, so if I totally screwed them up, I'm really sorry! Feel free to point it out in comments, and I will gladly fix. (Same goes with any other mistakes. I'm really easygoing, I swear.)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] Wayward and Down](https://archiveofourown.org/works/564338) by [KateMonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KateMonster/pseuds/KateMonster)




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